You feel it as you walk in the door. Sunday night angst grips your heart and wrings your lungs. As the clock ticks, it spins down your appendages. I try to hug myself on the couch to no use, find myself scrubbing the kitchen tiles in a fit as my mind begins the slow descent to madness. Sunday night. The last shaking minutes until it is too late to stare Truth right in the eyes. If you just ride out the storm, Monday morning will come soon to relieve you, bring you Other People's Problems and a checklist outside your own twisted psyche.
(But you could, whispers a voice inside you, run straight into it, you could leap fearlessly into the jaws of the beast, savor the few minutes of time when you remember what it is to bleed, and feel, and live, again. You could breathe pain, and love, and art, for just a few lingering moments, and while it might break you down, is it not also the only thing ever worth doing?)
A mint green typewriter stands in my window.
The entire world lies at our feet.
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