i want
Guess who passed her cleaning check without really knowing how to clean a bathtub? Pick me! It's a really good thing I wasn't the one who had to clean a toilet (just kidding, toilet cleaning isn't that bad, at least, not from what I can remember from my one-time experience working at my favorite sandwich shop). And I also have to brag: I can do laundry! And I have been doing laundry every weekend that I've come home! It's fantastic! I love it! I feel so domestic!
But now I have a strange desire: I want to go on poop patrol. And I want to mow the lawn. Are those weird desires? Even though my flesh cooks like monkeysteak every time I go walk outdoors, I want to be outside. I want to dig my toes in the meshy, cool blades of green grass. I want to dance around in the warm sun with dirt and mud on my hands. I want to skip, to laugh, to sing. I want to run, to breathe, to live.
I want. Funny isn't it, by saying those words I feel like a whiny two year-old, a baby monkey who can barely reach her arms out, begging and asking for the things that come to mind, those ideas that flit around here and there before they fly away in forgetfulness. Because as soon as I am done writing, I'll forget that I want to walk on the green grass, that I want to breathe, that I want to be. Because when I am done, I go back to the books, to the starch white glare of paper and angry words, back to noise, back to life. And suddenly, when I am done writing, being and living become the same thing once again.
But now I have a strange desire: I want to go on poop patrol. And I want to mow the lawn. Are those weird desires? Even though my flesh cooks like monkeysteak every time I go walk outdoors, I want to be outside. I want to dig my toes in the meshy, cool blades of green grass. I want to dance around in the warm sun with dirt and mud on my hands. I want to skip, to laugh, to sing. I want to run, to breathe, to live.
I want. Funny isn't it, by saying those words I feel like a whiny two year-old, a baby monkey who can barely reach her arms out, begging and asking for the things that come to mind, those ideas that flit around here and there before they fly away in forgetfulness. Because as soon as I am done writing, I'll forget that I want to walk on the green grass, that I want to breathe, that I want to be. Because when I am done, I go back to the books, to the starch white glare of paper and angry words, back to noise, back to life. And suddenly, when I am done writing, being and living become the same thing once again.
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