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nap first; sleep later

i just came up with my favorite new phrase in response to my girlfriend’s comment.  she says she’s exhausted.  she says basically ugh, it’s going to be an AWESOME day.  (read sarcasm into this, as she is very tired) (exhausted in fact)

(enter new phrase) “what you mean is, it’s going to be an EXHAUSTome day”. 

fun!

(but not for me, i mean, i just did yoga, so i should be full of energy today.   after my nap)

back to bed

i’m touchy today.

i’m highly sensitive and over stimulated.  i haven’t been getting enough sleep, there are too many kids next door screaming bloody murder, and dogs barking incessantly reminding me that i have only so much patience in my being.  i’m not perfect.  i’m not a saint.  some days i find these little things charming, sweet and adorable.

today is not one of those days.  today the high pitched squealing of small children is about to give me a migraine.  the barking dogs remind me of my time in mexico, when i thought i’d been kidnapped and might be sold as a child slave.  the beautiful summer day doesn’t remind me fondly of my grandmother, like i would expect, but of smog, fear, tension and the overwhelming nervousness i became used to when i lived in LA.

all in all:  it’s a great day to go back to bed, if i could.

a sad street

 

I’m tired today.

My body feels like it’s forgotten to sleep for about forty years, and it’s finally realized this omission. 

But my heart feels this way today as well.  Like my heart is walking down a lonely, rainy street and spies something, and bends down to pick it up.  My heart looks curiously at this newfound thing, but doesn’t seem to know what it is.  My heart rolls this thing around in its hand, and it feels uncomfortable.  It hurts.  It’s sharp and painful.  It makes my heart sad.  My heart doesn’t know what this is, doesn’t recognize it, but puts this thing in its pocket and continues on its way, until it finds something else that makes it sad, and lonely, and confused.

And with pockets full of unknown sorrows, my heart continues its journey, crying as it goes.