100 Daily

don't believe what anyway tells you, I am not that great of a human.  I am only human and I am not that good at it.  I get angry, I yell, I criticize, I cry, I make big things little and ignore the important things.  

I think something is wrong with me.  Which is probably what is wrong with me and I learned it from my mom and see what I did there?  I blamed someone else for my misery.

yep, let the record show that on february 4th, 2014, I was miserable.  and it was all my fault.  

There is not enough laughter in my lungs.  Is this my fault or yours?  Why don't you make me laugh?  Or have I lost the ability?  Does laughter atrophy, like a muscle in a cast?

Motherhood holds me in a place restrictive.  I burn with envy of women who are freed by this role.  The up and down, the back and forth, the whims of a small person made of my flesh.  I wish to feel free here.

Famous actors overdose with needles in their arms, even though they have 3 kids and are great at what they do.  We all have secrets that kill us eventually, I suppose.  

Sorry, was that too dark?  It finally rained today but not long enough for us to be out of danger.  Danger is always at our doorstep, in the tip of a needle, or dancing around in our heads. 

My heart aches with your illness, I can't stand to hear you wheeze.  This wasn't in "what to expect" but then again I didn't read that book.  I like to reject common advice and pretend that I am better than that.  

But I am not.  You and I both know that.  Every piece of it you gave me, went in one ear and out the other because we never established trust.  

On the second day of this project, I see myself trying too hard to come up with words to write to impress someone.  Who?  Well really no one.  Which is irony.  Isn't it?  

We are pajamaed still, it's almost noon.  The rain we were hoping would become a monsoon, did not.  So dry still hangs in the air and we wonder if there will be enough water to spare and to go around.

Mercury is hitting retrograde, while the critter is in headphones and we fight for use of the screen.  It's mine, no it's mine, it's ours.  Yes ours. 

Poetry isn't working for me and hand journalling isn't doing it for me any more.  Stuck and strained, the words echo in a chamber in my head but I can seem to get them out.  Or I don't try.   Today we do something new.  Today we do 100 Daily.

At least 100 words written daily.  Here.  Perhaps something good will come of it.  Some wave of inspiration, some rhythm of something worth exploring.  I promise this to myself and whomever may be interested in reading these words.  So far there is no one.