Oh boy. I seem to be developing a behavioral problem here. A sudden and severe case of the "I don’t wannas" brought upon me by the Creative Writing course again that brings with it, like Christmas, visions of sugarplum stories to the exclusion of all else.
Don’t wanna picture frame, don’t wanna plan dinner, don’t wanna read my History text today, and maybe not till May or longer will I finally agree to toe the line. "Go ye forth and write!" to me is literary license, overtaking any other semblance of a routine mundane life. Is Santa watching, I do wonder; and tell myself he is one seeking deeds of words. There’s only one real Santa Claus, I do believe, and cannot think he cares about the laundry or the bills.
I’ll swipe a cloth across the dusty furniture as I walk through the house; in a beeline for the keyboard, which in truth still holds the warmth of fingers prancing on its plane. ""Homework," I will mutter, when I’m warned the laptop’s smoldering my robe. "Dinner’s in the fridge, just go and find it, cheesch," I’ll say, allowing just a second for such a selfish thought intrusion.
And Patience questions, "Will this be your last math or writing course?" as he finds an orange on the cooler second shelf, and sympathetic to its loneliness, he hums to it as he peels his evening meal.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology