Languid

I feel lulled, an invisible barrier blocks my mind. I feel the literature boiling up inside, the prolongued mmmmm's, the moon escaping my eyes through the thoughtless clouds, the bubble wrap in the dining table, and all the other settings in which I feel a certain detatchment, when I see those little sparks flame up that are only in my head, when i remember the beauty of the ocean waves, the excitement of my dog while I am lying on the bed, her tail wagging in curious furious little circles. But no stories fall from this sad mouth, no force possesses these languid fingers but the pulse to key whatever board I can and make at least a mushy composition. I feel the emotions of effortless effort bundled up inside, I cannot sleep because a dog upstais is wailing, abandoned somehow. I love my lamp and my lushy curtains, the broken down books on the table, the childish quilt with trains on it. I love my sister's bike when it takes me to the yoga shala where I lie on my mat and try to get some sleep back because I want to bend this way and that but I'm also still trying to retrieve the world of my last dream. They say that April's a rough month. All this I live, and heave, and sweat, and many puddles do I skip over, and many dreams do I let rot and die, and many bursts of sobbing sighs, of anxiety fits and little pills and books I read that get to me. It is time passing through me, like water my fingers, leaving no trace in words behind, how does it do that? How does it come and leave wordless? How does it hit and leave no sort of bump or bruise? I'm stale, like a rock left by the side of the road, trembling on the edge, outside the wheel of fortune. I am a languid rock that rocks in place and wants to scribble whatever scribblings in the sand it may.