◊ Sunday demons ◊

"...and these sidewalks speak of demons
(there are demons all around me)
they are stepping on my toes
and my head just spins in circles
(I can't even stop this movement)
round and round it goes..."

"There are demons are all around me." Floating in from the other room.

It's dark except the glow from my screen, yet blue sky outside. Just. Streetlights bright.

Sunday. The day I slip in and out of this world. While awake.

The sky fades from pink just before six. I wait for the French press by my floor-length windows.

I can't seem to get dressed. Just sink inside myself, in the quietude. Alone. Wandering rooms, in and out of thoughts, music wafting, as usual.

The paper. Old movies. Space changes. Writing.

I study German for an hour. I told myself I would. I want to draw. While studying worry that it'll be too dark when I finish. But the days are longer. I'm fine.

I flip open my new sketchpad. Dig out the charcoals I haven't used since New Zealand. I have to draw. Black hands, grey paper. Dust and eraser shade the floor by the window. I want an easel but waited. Delayed gratification? Indecision?

Washing the black off in the shower. Cutting my hair in the mirror. Drawing again. Compelled.

Demons? Spinning? Life is this?

Sundays in Germany. The day I step between the cracks of consciousness.

"...Broadest road that I can travel
I am drawn by what I see
spirit living deep inside me
is fighting to be free..."
[Scattered by William Fitzsimmons]