Drowsy

The squalls keep coming in. I oddly want to take a trip up to the beach, which isn’t very far from me.

I want to see the sea oats coming in, the miscellaneous shells and cockles, I’d love to see a starfish and feel the crest of a wave unfurl over my naked toes.

In nine days I’ll be 36. That’s quite a thing to clock. The last couple of years have been extraordinarily rough, now all I want is rest.

My body must have agreed with me, because I caught COVID. I can’t smell or taste anything and I’m congested. I wander out of my apartment in a surgical mask and keep my distance from everyone.

P says I should sleep, just sleep. With all the lethargy I’ve been experiencing lately, I can’t disagree with her. I have that slightly battered feeling that comes with a cold, that dreamlike feeling of being a sleepwalker. I had three cups of coffee and still can’t wake up.

I’ve been drawing again. Mermaids mostly, but also gothic beauties in Victorian gowns with frilly necklines and cameo brooches pinned over their throats. Hollowed out cheekbones and thousand-yard stares.

Bozo and Molly keep tipping over their house and gnawing on it. Guinea pigs are funny little creatures, their large beady eyes spotted with dew gaze at me while I murmur to them. The sonorous hum of the dishwasher sloshes sudsy water over the plates in the kitchen.

It seems like only a matter of time before the next storm breaks over the horizon.