A Restless Need
Sometimes I sit here with my fingers on the keys, ready to type, but nothing comes out. It's not like I don't have anything going on in my head; there's plenty of thoughts racing around. I just can't get hold of them long enough to get them down in real text. Or sometimes, I do get hold of them then decide I can't write what I'm really thinking. So I end up sitting here, letting the minutes tick by, getting frustrated, and finally closing my laptop not having accomplished anything.
Like right now, yeah, I'm typing, but this isn't really what I want to write about. I'm not even sure exactly what it is I want to write about, but I do want to write. I can feel the need to express "something," whatever that something is.
As I'm worrying over wanting to write but not getting to the heart of what's flittering around inside my head, I can hear Funny Delightful Son in the next room, talking in that voice he uses when he's joking, poking fun at something. His girlfriend is with him, and she's laughing at everything he's saying. Their relationship is new, though they've known each other for five years. He recently wrote her a poem, and he shared it with me before he sent it to her by mail. Not email. A real letter that she could open and keep with her. She, in turn, wrote him a letter and gave it to him personally. He told me it made his heart skip. A wistful feeling cloaks me like a heavy quilt as I sit here, listening in on their conversation, sensing the sweetness of their relationship.
But that's not what I really want to write about either. Nor is it about Dog, who I can hear pacing up and down the stairs, the hall, then into the office. He only paces when he has just gotten a bone. He carries the bone around the house, first into the living room, then back into the kitchen/dining room, then upstairs, back downstairs, and on he continues until he's satisfied that he has found the just right spot to settle down and finally eat the bone. Maybe it's from him that I get this restless need to find the just-right "something" to write about. It's all Dog's fault.
It's not his fault. It's all me. I do know what I want to write about, but I won't. Instead, I'll keep the thoughts right where they are, safely tucked away so no one sees them.
Like right now, yeah, I'm typing, but this isn't really what I want to write about. I'm not even sure exactly what it is I want to write about, but I do want to write. I can feel the need to express "something," whatever that something is.
As I'm worrying over wanting to write but not getting to the heart of what's flittering around inside my head, I can hear Funny Delightful Son in the next room, talking in that voice he uses when he's joking, poking fun at something. His girlfriend is with him, and she's laughing at everything he's saying. Their relationship is new, though they've known each other for five years. He recently wrote her a poem, and he shared it with me before he sent it to her by mail. Not email. A real letter that she could open and keep with her. She, in turn, wrote him a letter and gave it to him personally. He told me it made his heart skip. A wistful feeling cloaks me like a heavy quilt as I sit here, listening in on their conversation, sensing the sweetness of their relationship.
But that's not what I really want to write about either. Nor is it about Dog, who I can hear pacing up and down the stairs, the hall, then into the office. He only paces when he has just gotten a bone. He carries the bone around the house, first into the living room, then back into the kitchen/dining room, then upstairs, back downstairs, and on he continues until he's satisfied that he has found the just right spot to settle down and finally eat the bone. Maybe it's from him that I get this restless need to find the just-right "something" to write about. It's all Dog's fault.
It's not his fault. It's all me. I do know what I want to write about, but I won't. Instead, I'll keep the thoughts right where they are, safely tucked away so no one sees them.
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