I blocked out a bit of time tonight to indulge in some writing, so of course I've been sitting here with my laptop on my lap staring off into space for 40 minutes now while my nose gets steadily colder and my nipples feel like I've accidentally stuck them in a pencil sharpener. It makes writing something meaningful somewhat difficult.
I think about writing all the time. My internal monologue is incessant, and I hear my own voice as I compose in my head like a self involved 90s melodrama. Sometimes I put words or a concept together and think I ought to write it down so I remember. But I never do, and where there should be a folder in my brain with a lot of neatly filed ideas, there instead lies a trove of random procrastination instead. Half started compositions with a handful of beautiful phrases that don't make a blog in themselves.
There are the half written thoughts about the Possum and his impossible cleverness and cuteness. How much seeing him walking around nude before his bath with his chubby pale legs looking strong and competent instead of the world's tiniest zombie drunkard makes me feel happy/sad.
The dreamy thoughts about the exact colour of the twilight dark and the light of the single star beneath a curved moon that fade rapidly into irrelevance and fancy.
The sad thoughts about confrontation with death and the smell of a body that is dying. The desperate ways those who work with death deal with it, from complete nonchalance to alcohol to denial to sex. THere's a reason all those medical shows are filled with gratuitous fucking.
The motivational thoughts of the way that skin feels when heated from effort and the air blows over it but doesn't make you shiver. The way that walking home in the dark feels on my skin and the way the shadows dance on the footpath. Simultaneously contemplating climbing the wattle tree that I have to pass to grab a gold encrusted bough to take home while wondering whether I'm being followed along the poorly lit path (and if my stethoscope would hurt if I whipped it across an assailants face having no fingernails at the moment with which to protect myself). Choosing neither and tripping over the gutter in high heels because I was watching the moon.
Half swirly thoughts of trips to Europe that get bogged in Bastille flavoured croissants and Aegean blue.
Witticisms about life and pithy commentary on social occurrences that get distracted by the startlingly bare hindquarters of my neurotic cat who Lady Macbeth-like is determined to scrub himself clean.
But instead of any of these ideas growing, and being sharable, I shiver and pretend that I'm not so cold that my nose is nearly dripping and that my life is actually far more glamorous than it is. And give you descriptions of my nipples.