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.