Insert - how incredibly exciting my life is, and how colossally important a creature I am - here.
I am not as tired today. My doctor told me to take a two-hour nap to compensate for the sleepless nights. It worked somewhat. I am not as fatigued. Perhaps, I will make it a habit - taking naps in the afternoon like a toddler. There have been scientific studies supporting this theory as promoting productivity, but I don't recall the titles at the moment. I fell asleep again at around 1 AM, that's usually the time my son goes to the kitchen to search for snacks. I heard his heavy footsteps descend the stairs.
I awoke on my left side on the ground, under his tree. It was extremely uncomfortable, and I wondered how I managed to sleep. He had gathered large leaves and thatches of dried grass where I laid. I remember falling asleep on his chest last night, and that was all. I must have been exhausted. Even in my dreams, I am exhausted. It was morning. I heard birds chirping. I didn’t know what kind they were. Their tones were unfamiliar to me. Indeed, they must be small. Their tweeting was high-pitched, and there were many of them. The river sounds I’ve become familiar with - it probably was what helped me sleep. It was ataractic - that, and him holding me all night. I wondered if it was possible to will myself to stay in this place just a little longer. Reality always returns. And the truth for me at this time is unbearable.
In my cozy nook, housed in my memory, lies this scene. I wear a red dress, a lace pattern measuring just above my knees. It has short sleeves, but long enough not to upset the gossiping ladies always hanging around the plaza. The dress hugs my body perfectly, but not too tight as to seem to beg for attention. He wouldn't like that at all. He is traditional in that sense. My hair hangs loose just above my hips - black as coal, in waves. He thought me beautiful that way, running his fingers through them when we met, caressing them gently as he held me close to him. When he kisses me, his lips - warm, gentle - tastes like honey. His hands rest at the small of my back, pulling me just close enough not to cause those same ladies to make a fuss. We are to them, just children, after all. One of them, most likely two, will certainly be reporting to our parents to tell of the scandal that is our sin.
For posterity. Hah! I am going to write because I want to. I will write for no one else but me, and if you're going to say, why publish on Vocal? Well, why not? Perhaps someone will read it, maybe only my mother will. Although I doubt it very much. She doesn't quite get my humour - and suffice it today, she thinks me a cynic. Anyhow, let's write. If only to release the bursting cells of emotion within me - about to explode simultaneously - if not unburdened immediately. You'd find me a puddle - oozing, unmoving - dead. So, let's write.