I know I’m the worst sort of blogger/writer going. I’m the every-man of the personal blog . . . He Who Posts Infrequently!
Obviously, I am willing to use my baby as an excuse. It’s not nearly as good of an excuse as it was a couple of months ago, but I’m milking it. I have been writing bits off and on, but I keep clicking the “Save Draft” button instead of “Publish.” I have a number of drafts lingering that I will try to get up. I just feel addle-brained and tired so often that I stop myself from working on anything longer than a few minutes.
Well, I wrote this the other day, and I thought I’d at least put it up to start the process of working through the backlog. It wasn’t based on anything other than an thought I had of a distressing situation. I may try to flesh this out and see where it goes, but that’s likely dependent upon my mood.
I can hear her in the other room.
She’s breathing heavily but not so frantic;
The panic has finally hidden itself away.
Thought and remembrance still lingers,
Dwelling on unpleasant things.
I don’t have the stomach to speak to her.
I’ve never seen her so upset, so unlike her,
Purple with mingled rage and fear.
She quaked without and spoke tremulously.
She was distraught, and yet again something more,
Something altogether frightening, nearly inhuman.
I hurt for her.