Tuesday, August 29, 2006


I am writing just because I can't help but to write--it's the curse of desire. I don't want to write but I DESIRE to write--two totally different things. This desire burns in a place that was imprinted upon my soul before the conception of my body. It can't, and refuses, to be erased; I'll go to my grave with this desire and head straight to the heavens with it. My wants? My wants have ebb and flow. They blow with the wind and live in die in seconds. I want ice cream. I want a Volvo truck. I want Sir to sleep all night. I want quietude. I want a new pair of black pants. I want Peanut to stop talking to me while I'm trying to type this. I want, I want, I want. And then I don't want. All those things I say I want can change in an instant. And when I'm no longer breathing, I won't care about all those things I wanted. So even though I don't want to write tonight, or change any more diapers, I still have a strong, pulling desire to do so. And I will write, and I will change diapers. It just is what it is. DESIRE.