I want to write. So so so much. There’s this one scene that keeps repeating itself in my mind, over and over again, wanting to get out of my head and onto the page. And with every day I can’t write it down, the possibility increases that it might not make much sense canon-wise anymore (because by the time I’ve finished this, they’re probably married, have 3 children and ditched the airstream in favour of a nice house ages ago ;-))))). But I *want* to write this. So much. Because I keep hearing Lisbon in my head, asking Jane a question, I keep hearing Jane in my head, telling her something secret from a long time ago. I want to write it down. Now.
Instead, I’m sitting on the sofa, cough medicine on the table, scarf around my neck, tissues everywhere and have been staring at the bookshelf for almost half an hour now. Next to my favourite books sits a small toy unicorn, rearing up on its hind legs, its rider raising one hand into the air. There were no playmobil unicorns when I was little, so I took some paper and made a horn and stuck it to a white horse’s head. There was also no character dressed like the one I envisioned, so I painted what I think was originally a fire-fighter. White pants with green stitches on the side of the legs, brown boots, green vest, white shirt. The green is faded now, almost gone, but funny enough the paper horn is still firmly attached to the horse’s head. I have no idea what glue I used, but apparently it was good. What I do remember is the birthday I got both horse/unicorn and fire-fighter/unicorn-rider. Which is probably why I keep staring at it.
Because tomorrow is my birthday. And I’m dreading it. I’ve had my share of miserable birthdays, but this one is probably going in the top five. I’ve set my expectations very low anyway, but it seems not low enough.
All I’d want for my birthday, is to finish this story - which I won’t get to do, given my brain is not really working due to the third bout of bronchitis this year.
All I’d want for my birthday, is to have a nice caramel coffee thingy from Starbucks in the morning - which is not an option, because there is no time and too much work waiting for me in the office.
All I’d want for my birthday, is a hug from a friend - which I won’t get, because the very few I have don’t live anywhere near me.
All I’d want for my birthday, is not to be alone, miserable and forgotten. Which I will be. Because that’s how it always turns out to be in the end.
Damn, I wish I could write. So I didn’t have to think about all this stuff. I just want to be in a happy fluffy fluff bubble somewhere. Maybe in an airstream. Dreaming of rain. Or something like that.