Concrete evidence of plans made and lost leap out at me whenever I walk through this house. My carpet is dirty and in paces bits of the berber have come undone. And in an instant, I have a flash of a memory that serves to remind me that the carpet was to be replaced by smooth wooden planks that would have been beautiful and glossy and oh-so-lovely to me. And things that once seemed near and easy and whole become distant and impossible and broken. Such a little thing, too. If these material things are so difficult to deal with, what of the matters of my heart? What of them.
I am listening to a game and watching nfl.com (once again) and I've just cleaned my room so the surface of my desk can finally breathe and I really do believe that it is saying thank you -thankyou- thank you so much for letting me peek out from beneath the clutter. And now I sit and watch the games and read Shakespeare's sonnets and wonder just what exactly I am going to write my short story about. I have ideas, yes. Always there are ideas -thosearesimple- but it is the putting them into action, watching them glide out onto paper and knowing that the idea becomes lost in the words that just aren't quite right ... it is that which bothers me so much. If ever there comes a time when I can take the images in my head and throw them down on paper and have them match exactly, I would truly be happy.