What hurts more?

I am weak, tired of my own excuses. The baseboards are full of fine white chalk from sanding patches, I know I should have taped them-up first. The artwork leans upon the dusty, empty walls as footpaths are showing gently past. I am tired of the sun-shapes, those brightly scripted, garishly twisted, distortions of my windows and blinds on the livingroom walls that I have never seen before taking the pictures down. I alone, of course, anticipated my finishing the painting of these walls long ago, but have managed to almost fall in love with the mottled differences of the white primed patches, the dust smears or of the existing white paint. Why do I do this to myself? Was it really that bad, what with the holes and the marks and the just ugly, old, dirty white walls? Would it make that much of a difference to display all the art work over new Slake white walls? Give me strength, give me want, please, give me more than I deserve. I am not sure what hurts more, pain or procrastination?

Between the dust and sand.

Who reads Blogs? I mean, it is all the rage and I admit, I read them, but who reads them? Are the bloggers reading them or are they just writing theirs? I am a writer by heart and only by heart, to tired to transfer my old writings, ramblings from paper onto the big screen, er 17" monitor, besides who could be interested in my garbage? I would write more, well here on this site if I could take my desktop to my bed, but that would be impossible. If I had a laptop, then maybe I could write from many thrones about the apartment, since I am physically deformed, like in a sitting position, hunched over severely even when I am standing, it would seem that I am what a writer looks like,(since writers sit to write) even while I am standing. If I could afford it(laptop), I would install software to type as I talk, then I could just do what comes natural, talk and talk and talk, but now all I do is think and think and think. I am hoping it is only a phase that I am in and also, I am hoping it will be over come, by me of course and I would get up and do and do and do. Maybe its just the morphine, the dragon that threatens to sit me done if I dare move, the fog is his first defense, not his size or the tooth in his words, but just the fact that I never know from where his claw is swinging up from, from the left under my breath or from the right to which I am unable to reach against. But most likely from above since it is his fire that melts me closer to the ground as each day passes, his breath upon my shoulders and the back of my neck as he presses me closer together, my face coming against my chest, his paw resting on the back of my head, that is the look of me. What I would give to stand, stretch and straighten, to reach for the sky and break every fused bone in my spine,in my neck and to straighten out with a long reach behind myself, to look to the right and to look to the left and to look up to see... you. Who would be... you? Who is the girl at the cafe' I have never seen...you, but I say hello to you and ask for my iced coffee? Who would be you? Who have I passed every other day at the bookstore, who's voice have I come to know so wantingly well, but have no idea what " you " look like? I am so familiar with the ground before me that I could tell you stories of the grains of salt between the dust and sand.

" Good night dad I love you too ".

I have been away for quite some time, staring at my thoughts far too long this time. Searching for reasons to get up. But comes along Sal and the reasons are, the sandwich, the mail, the little bit of paper that hit me on the head and is expected to be shot back, the scooter needs to be plugged in, the ball needs to be carefully bounced back without breaking the vase of black tulips. The deals I've made and the promises I can't remember, but the reasons he comes up with are meant, I guess to distract me from the motionless, mindless, image I have become of late. He figures I was sitting still a little too long. My son takes me by the hand and leads me to bed, leaning back on my tall stack of soft, white, feather pillows and following my routine, he turns on the heating pad and gentle is his hand on my shoulder with his firm, cool touch, he coaxes me forward and slips the warm pad behind me saying " its ready Dad ", with his reassurances I have what is needed, he sets my extra pillow on my lap and hands me my current book from aside the bed table, opens it to the bookmark that which he sets anew in latter pages. Gathering the nightly tools he sets out about the apartment to play the rituals before bed, like laying a snake of beans under the door to bust the draft, shut out the lights, cover the Guinea pig and before he puts his phone on the bed table beside my water bottle, he tells me he will be back, again. Shuffling into the room with his arms full from his bed trunk pillows, old quilt, one arm he throws them to the floor and asks me " are you OK dad?" I hmmm and mumble " yes Son " he whispers " good, good " patting me on my hand, he rubs my shoulder, turns around and shuts the light... now, I am sitting here, propped up in my bed, with my extra pillow on my lap with which nestles in it my favorite book, a chilled water bottle and the phone at arms reach, my son camping out on the floor beside me and its PITCH BLACK! I guess you just had to have it happen to you. " Good night son I love you ". " Good night dad I love you too ".