I've written 23,791 words -- a bit behind, and not inclined to write today. I sit at the keyboard, not wanting to be there. I've gone back and given titles to the previous 28 word- splurges. I've checked my email. I've read this week's pep-talk. I've considered taking the day off altogether. I've tucked away my dreams in that dark corner:
Gary F comes to see me, with his current -- wife? lover? -- He follows me about, won't leave me alone. No matter how I try to ditch him, I turn around and there he is again.
Something about locked doors, that do not work. Finally, we just sit together, silently, holding hands, and I wonder -- is this forgiveness? Is this what forgiveness is?
I am tired of this immersion in my past; I am tired of my present, as well. I write a poem, and as always, it betrays the feeling I have hidden away. Claustrophobia, walls moving in, clutter and dustiness and loss --
Is there anything I am willing to write this morning? I look at my list of topics, and nothing beckons me. The dogs snooze on their respective sofas. The radio plays old music.
And I feel an old woman, a woman looking back because there is nothing to look at, ahead. A woman whose dreams are peopled with old lovers.
Today, I'm giving you an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo project. Because it has adult content, I'm putting it below the cut so you can skip it if you'd prefer.
And for the rest of you, a parakeet: