I am the slow ant, creeping, watching from the inside my body change. The full, swollen sensation below my gut. My body playing tricks on me: the urge to pee even after the release, the pizza I craved suddenly turning repulsive mid-bite, brain-weary but open-eyed. And now the swollen sensation is gone. Maybe I was just bloated, maybe I ate too much stuffing and gumbo, maybe it wasn’t pregnancy at all.
I’ve lost 40 points of my verbal skills. But I know math sharply enough to figure that’s 5.97%. Do I blame my body’s strange weariness, strange fogginess, on energies newly diverted to one focal point inside me? Or is it instead the fault of three weeks of stress and sleepless and mental exertion aimed at writing 40 pages? Did I lose a point for each page? Will I bounce back? The sleep, the television, could be the recuperation I need, but I feel I’m being sucked into the vortex of laziness, dismotivation, and lack of movement. I yearned for time, and now time has come, and though I can see it dwindling, I can’t make myself make use of it.
Beautiful honey and pottery and clothes yell at me to write, and paint, and sing. So quickly and fragily building cells squeeze me to clean with feng shui passion and cook with Thai inspiration and stretch my body with martial arts intensity. But my brain and my eyes and my cold, cold feet say curl up under that blanket instead.
What if everyone in the world put their artistic yearnings into fulfilled action?