Stream of musingness, vol 1

Sometimes it’s hard to write in stream of muse. You don’t know the muse inside of you. A cat is on my lap, it is my cat, no it is not, it is Josh’s cat, but is it mine too who knows? Who can own a cat? Stream of musings.

The feeling of your eyes getting tired in the evening, did they always used to be this tired? I swear earlier in life, back in college, it was this time of night that my eyes were just coming alive.

My alive eyes are in the morning now, in the morning morning when I’m learning German, cheered on by an owl that I can change what he’s wearing. Now he’s wearing formal wear. In the evening is when you usually wear that formal wear, the really sparkly things, the dark things that make my skin wade out pale and ghostly, but sometimes I wear lipstick so you just see dark eyes and red lips. Stream of musings.

The grocery store today felt like something else, felt like a memory, felt like being carefree, felt like not worrying about tomorrow or about the virus, felt like doing whatever we wanted, when we wanted, as long as it was buying something new and weird, creamed herring, throwing the blueberry covered goat cheese so he can catch, at the grocery store. But we did not get the $47 smoked salmon fillet. Stream of musings.

That feeling when even dialing anyone up on the phone seems like you’re asking me to do pushups. Stream of musings.

Singing your favorite songs, but then it turns out you can’t sing them very well, they were always out of your register, but you just changed the key whenever you wanted to, and now you’re singing karaoke and your female singers are too high, your male singers too low, only the Killers, the Killers, the Killers are just just right. Stream of musings.

And even sometimes they’re too high.

Stream of musings.