When you’re here

I used to write in my room. I had a desk in there and it felt a million miles away. It came so easily. I wanted to get away and blow off some steam so I went to my room, shut the door and wrote. And what I wrote was good. I liked what I had to say. And so did you.

I drink too much. Maybe I have a problem. I yell over everything. I don’t know-maybe I need to look into that. I don’t create enough. I have a draft box full of dead elephants. Trumpet, tusks, and ears.  They are sad so I don’t go in there anymore. There is no resuscitation after death….after any sign of weakness, actually.

You come home and through a cloud of smoke and a half bottle of wine I scream at you to leave me alone. I’m creating, damn it!  I need my space. An argument ensues and whatever I thought I had has vanished. My genius poem now finishes with a  sad rhyme about everything ugly I imagine you see in me.

Today I write in the midst of it all. I write in the living room, in the kitchen, I scribble things down on a scrap paper at work.  Half of it never gets looked at again, but sometimes a thought penetrates and settles in for a bit. I try a million times before I make it stick.

Tonight, I happily imagined a room in my own house that I could go to and write in. I went online and browsed Zillow and Ikea- gathering the perfect wood for a desk in a house with the best view of the most inspirational lake.  I took my dog for a walk and thought about that room. Imagining the air was solid, I ran my fingers over the wood of my desk as we walked along. And I thought about what I would write.

And now I am in the kitchen. Writing what I thought about on a walk I had a dream about. You’re in the living room. There’s a candle on stove and it’s a welcomed light in the dark, at the head of the table where we eat, pay bills, drink and fight. I am not far away…as I want to be-lost in another world- warding off dragons and fighting for my life. It is in the middle of the night and we are in the midst of our busy, responsible, active lives that I struggle to find the chance to see a reflection of myself.

The fight and the activity have taken the place of the quiet space I had to run to. I’m at the kitchen table, with you in the next room and I think, “this will do”  ~~For now~~

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