These Rarified Days

I am tired from a day of doing nothing, though I did do some things, it just seems like these things I did were nothing sorts of things.

It was long ago when I made a pot of soup though it was only this morning.  It was long ago when I paid the rent, though it was only this noon.  It was long ago that I touched my husband, though it was only last night.  It was long ago that I yelled at the kids though it was only a minute ago.  I couldn't wake up this morning.  I set my alarm for six and kept hitting the snooze, and I slept and dreamed for a long time, dreaming about, I don't know exactly, some place, some beach, that was surrounded by hills of empty houses that terrified me, though there was someone there at the beach with me who I liked very much, but I couldn't see exactly who because the sun was too bright even though the day was gray and stormy.  I woke and picked up a book and read something disturbing and laughed and put it down again.

And now my mind is running around like a spassy little dog caught on the end a rusty chain.

I've been irritable lately and not calm.  I've gotten irritated about photographs and memories and food left out on the counter.  I've been irritable about shoes, and I haven't been able to focus the way I think I should.  I start to write and decide I'd rather read.  I read and decide I'd rather play drums.  I play drums and think maybe I should take a walk or sit on the porch and do nothing.  I do nothing and think maybe I should write about doing nothing.

But then I grow so tired I can't keep my eyes open and my mind unscrambles and so I end up writing nothing about nothing.  Which is an alright thing.  Considering.

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