Monday, 6 April 2015

If it's okay with you, I'm just going to go ahead and slide into Tuesday.

This force is in love with you
It wants you safe
It wants you well
This force knows what you can do
And what you can make
With your tattered shell

Faith in your device
So quiet and precise
Just when, not how
You can feel it now
Deep beneath the light
A spark will now ignite
And you will see me now
This is our world now
Dreaming of omelets and angels today. Cold to a fault. Frustrated with being sick and feeling weak and achey and dizzy. Not in the mood for anything it seems and yet life demands that I sit up and pay attention when I just want to fight it, push it away and crawl under the covers in order to sleep for a year.

Sam calls that depression. I just call it Monday.

I don't know how to fix this frustration. Wait to get better? Go easy? Naw. I was changing beds all morning and hauling weeds all afternoon. I daresay I made a hint of progress on both fronts and can do it all again in a week. Invisible chores. Like cleaning windows and the tops of cupboards. All the things no one sees but appreciates like mad the second they lapse. Bah, humbug.

Bah Mondays.

They should be stricken from the record.

I'm going to go put on wool socks and a big fuzzy grey sweater and try and thaw Lochlan, who won't thaw at all but is gentle and sweet even if he's mad. I can't say I blame him but he agreed to this and it's working so why fuck with a good arrangement? Why not just stay away from the Devil? Why eat angels when you can eat eggs instead? Why be sick when you could be better? Why be awake when I could just sleep and then my brain wouldn't forge a mutiny on me at the start of each brand new week?

Wouldn't I love to have the answers, but the questions aren't even real.