I Don't Live Alone

I don't live alone. It just looks like that. I have an apartment. There are two bedrooms and one of them acts as my office. I try to sit at my desk in there and write, but it is as if the magnets of writing ideas pull me away from there. I have a nice set up. A large living room with two couches and a nice TV which I watch more often than I'd like to admit. I should be writing, exercising, cleaning, running errands, calling family, leaving the house for once, or maybe just relaxing with a book. But no. The Today Show runs my early to late morning and then it is TBS from then out. I have creativity and I can write. It's just that I can find a whole lot of other things to do. It is as if not only does my writing desk reject me, or I guess I subconsciously reject it since I'm the living being, but it is as if I have these creative juices flowing and pulsing through me that I could explode. They should be used to write master pieces. My energies should spill out onto paper like a fine powder coating the sheets of paper like a dusting snow, and when the wind blows words are left behind. They should come so naturally, but they freaking do not. Instead, I paint or draw. I quilt and knit. I cook and bake. All of which keep my fat and happy, but never seal the deal with the writing situation. I rely on my writing to keep a roof over my head and little mini roofs (rooves?) over my fat and happy kitties' heads.

I wake alone. I write alone. I sing in the shower alone. I eat alone. Yet there is another. A man in my life. The man actually. Not "the man" as in the government. But the one and only, always forever. Well, actually. The only every other weekend and sometimes just special occasions and holidays "one." I ok with it, I think. He's off chasing his dream. And of course, I allowed such a thing so he could be who he was meant to be and whatnot. For the here and now, it is a lousy situation and I don't know what I had been smoking when I agreed to such circumstances. Some befuddled love principle of sort lead me to to think being apart wouldn't hurt or would only be good for us. And I once heard, "It is a sure way to lead myself into disaster if it is under the illusion it will be good for me." Or something like that.

The literal house I live in is being supported and paid for by Darrel. He's my husband of four years. We have been students for half of that time. I was a student the first half and him the second. It is a really weird situation to feel like you went from being a hopeless mope relying on someone elses money writing papers all day to a hopeless mope relying on someone else's money writing books all day. It is true though, and oh so sad.