As the clock winds down I start to dream again; dreams that never seem to flourish in daylight. Memories of the girl I once was, and wonderings about the girl I seem to be destined to become.
There is glamour in the offing: I watch myself type, neatly manicured fingernails betraying my fixation with outward appearances. Soft melodies play through my speakers, and brief flashes of inspiration flare, and die down as quickly.
My physical journal lies abandoned on the sill: after writing for four to six hours a day I am disinclined to write more, preferring to type here, which I can do quickly and without cramping.
Perhaps this spring break I can slowly ease back into the habit of writing daily.
Looking at my desk, I notice how the girlish and the masculine blend together seamlessly: a Vera Bradley calendar stands next to a black desk lamp festooned with strings and strings of Marti Gras beads; to my left wristbands from multiple shows as well as ticket stubs from all the Gator football home games and the Capital One Bowl are pinned to the corkboard, my Nikon on its stand nearby, and a small pink standing mirror is positioned so that I can see my hands as I type.
I look to my right and stop at my easel. The painting I worked on all yesterday has dried, but I haven't continued working on it yet: the urge to paint died last night and it hasn't yet returned.
It grows late and there is a freeze warning from midnight (two hours ago) til nine in the morning, so I will betake myself to bed and get some sleep. I cannot wait for summer and feeling warm at night once more.
Au revoir, mes amis.
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