Today I am wiped out. Exhausted. Washed clean of any desire for passion or excitement or intrigue. I feel flat & grey with the aftermath of all the things my mind conceives... all the things after which my body yearns. One can only yearn so much before you must either peak or rest. The house is silent, and the silence wraps itself around me & insulates me from the world. H called this morning & I didn't pick up. For a live person to intrude on this bubble of silence & solitude this day would be grating. Unacceptable. It would pierce this bubble that surrounds me, that muffles the world.

Yet the desire.. the need to spill events & perceptions onto paper churns those moments of perception 'round & 'round inside me. It tells me I cannot feel again - cannot go into another round of what if & wow! until I put something on paper. I am full to the brim with moments, and I cannot experience any more without writing or they will be gone. They will spill over the edge of me & be lost to a yesterday I can no longer remember. There is no more room for storage.

So I escape. I have copies to make for this week's training, and B is still safely ensconced @ J&S's, so it's into STL to the office to hide amid row upon row of grey cubicles. I'll jog back & forth across the entire floor (or floors, if necessary), making the copy machines work on what should be their day of rest. The building, designed to house hundreds of people, will be eerily silent, mostly dark. Empty except for the security guards and a stray odd person or two that will appear as startled as I should we run into one another. I might... just might... have time & silence enough to write. To pull enough of a single thought into coherence and empty it onto paper. Might.