Thursday night. Here I sit. Cheap desk. Cheap white wine - Simply Naked Pinot Grigio. Notebook, paper, and purple pen. Laptop. And loads of books. Poetry, philosophy, books on writing, books on names, books on tarot, books on depression. This is what I choose to be closest to me.
Cat scratching at the door. But I've locked her out because in here is my world of fantasy and there's no room for tigers like her. I only have room for loud music and words. Piles and oodles and heaps of words. Glorious words. Melodramatic words. Poignant words. Enthusiastic and insane words.
So, no, I'm not cool. I'm not at the club. I don't have a roomful of friends laughing at something I just said. I'm not drinking beer in a bar and watching the ball game. (Though I do have the updates flashing on my phone!)
Instead, I'm the slave to a vulpine muse. I'm tethered to a lighthouse full of people only I've met. And I'm happy.
So, so happy.
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