Rag football

The night arrives to chill the air, helping to drive out the sauna in the room. Fan whirls on the lowest setting, and light cascades in around the folded edge of the tie-dyed tapestry. I do not have the Q flag on my door yet, but it wouldn’t help to keep the heat at bay were it hanging. Over seven thousand feet in elevation can expect as much as ten inches of snow on Saturday, but my truck will not take me there as of yet. Tomorrow I need to vote, to change out the thermostat, to finish the motorcycle diaries, to make a list of interviews, to fill out at least one application, to interact with the birds outside, to read something uplifting, to eat, to drink, and to be thankful. But tonight, I just need to endure. I just need to remember not to roll out of bed because my mattress no longer sits on the floor. I might break my knee caps, or knock over my closet. My entire bookcase might fall off of my desk, and that would be tragic. I might become trapped beneath it, eternally mocked by the volumes that I never started, reaching out to the void, unable to move. These dreams of soft whispers from raspy voiced unknown females make me want to punch the wall until I cannot feel anything. Anything. Please sweat fall and do not return. Please cat do not jump in through my window in search of my sleeping birds. I might have to kill you. And that would be bad. Please chill come to my eyes. Please cool come to my bones. Please night let me rest. I have a to do list for tomorrow that is the size of Missouri, and my entirely self imposed deadlines make me feel as uncomfortable as the yet unpublished rags to riches story. I play the rag.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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