Posted by: sulya | 15 June 2009

Still & Close

No breeze.  
Have houseguests.  
Family.  

Sleeping on the new fancy sleeper sofa with air-top mattress.
 Not bad but the outside air
– not the air inside the mattress –
keeps trying to strangle me
if I get too far away from an open window
for too long.  

Don’t like being strangled.  

Bitched about winter all winter and now summer is here
– finally –
and it’s tough.  
Not as bad as this time last year, but close.
Still & Close. 

But the trees look like trees again, and well.

And I can handle heat better since I was exposed
to a lot of it last year and was happy in it.

Happy in any extreme temperature is not normal for me.  
Not usual.  
Unusual.

But I really can take it better than I used to.

Except the strangling part.

The close-in-and-still-and-strangling part.

And I want to write.  
I feel like there are so many things to write about
but I am stuck telling myself
the same stories over and over again.

Like the space for stories in my mind is small and lined with mirrors.

I’m not stuck in the big picture any more.
Just stuck telling the same stories over and over.  
And not just to myself.

Fantasy stories.  
Legends and Fables and ephemera born of memory.

I am distracted.
I am paused.  On hold.
Oscillating madly in a tiny space where it is too hot
and still
and too tiring to oscillate.

Equivocate.
Obfuscate.

Dance.

Too hot to dance.

So, sleep.

Yeah.
Okay.
Sleep.
If I can.

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