I’m sitting, trying to write a song for Sunday, surrounded by the mess from lunch and the crumbs and the toys scattered haphazardly throughout the entirety of the first floor, and the kids not really sleeping upstairs, and not a coherent thought in my head. And I keep thinking if I could just make a space for myself, I could write, or if I could just get on top of the housework and get some VISUAL peace at least, or, worst of all, maybe in two years when this baby is older, then, then I will be able to write again. Be myself again.
But this is my space. This is me. This is the brief moment I have to try, and to let it slip through my fingers will leave me in worse shape than my wrecked house and weary-worn soul already are.
So I’m sitting here, trying to write a song for Sunday.