I’m so tired right now.
I worked a catering shift, which means pushing your body around for a solid 7 hours until they let you off early. 10pm. It was some sort of convention for the Latino community. There was a live mariachi band, and salsa dancing. Wine. Lots and lots of wine because it was an auction so us servers were instructed to let it flow.
Something else happened tonight that made me feel weird. No, not weird….just different. A tall, handsome man told me that I had captivated his attention tonight, among other things. Usually I don’t take events like that too seriously, but the look in his eyes denied triteness, and he gave me a number on one of his business card. I might have blushed, I don’t know, because I’m shy like that.
Do you love Christ with all your heart, all your soul and all your mind? That is how you will win my heart.
But I didn’t say that. I just slipped the card in my pocket and continued serving. Shame on me.
So the night ended well with me not screwing up and everything going smoothly, and I came home and spilled my Arnold Palmer all over the floor, but that’s okay because I still had my Indian curry that I made a few nights back. My mother gave me her favorite recipe and now I am queen of the curry realm.
And I’m sitting here, exhausted. And all I want to do is bury my face in my palms because I want to mold something beautiful out of words, something that sings and glows. I don’t want to want to write beautifully; I want to write about beautiful things. I want my words to provoke minds to see beauty. There’s a difference. Too many have proved that raw talent is not enough. It is, but not for what I desire.
And you see what happens when I sit down to write?
When I scribe thoughts of impossible things and dreams without waking,
diminished in shadows,
born yearning for morning,
craving the light.
So you see. Words catch in my throat and make them ache, but so many times I am caught rendered speechless. My tongue refuses to cooperate when I am asked a question, or when I desire to speak now, not tonight or the next when I’m awake in my bed, trying to sleep. I have this irritating tendency of stuttering when I’m at work, and I feel like an idiot. It’s not like I spend hours meticulously fine combing my writing. I just…let my fingers type. So why is talking to difficult? I don’t even know where half this stuff come from. Maybe all those Patricia Mckillip books I read growing up. They captivated me, I remember. Heart and soul.
So sweet dreams. Goodnight night. We have another morning to face, or to glory in. Take your pick.