Drowning

Sunday. The sacred sigh of the week. And yet here I am, not wrapped in dream-rich reverie or trailing ink into something that might resemble magic. No. I'm in the trenches with kitchen duties and overdue tasks and a to-do list that laughs—actually laughs—in my face.

I am so tired. Bone-wild, soul-weary, witch-deep tired. The kind of tired that sinks teeth into your dreams and pulls. I wake up tired, I go to sleep tired, and in between I scurry like some half-forgotten animal trying to keep up with the collapsing scaffolding of "being a responsible adult."

And gods, the weeping-worthy burden of being so miserably broke. That particular ache that makes your chest feel hollow and your thoughts itch with desperation. It's not even about materialism. It's about survival. It's about not knowing if the card will go through. It's about counting coins and skipping meals and telling yourself "next month will be better" until that becomes your gospel.

And the art? The wild, feral, impossible art? It waits. Always it waits. Patient, cruel, beautiful. It stands in the doorway of my mind with arms crossed, tapping its foot like, "Really? Again? You said we would paint. You said we would write."

But no. The floors need cleaning. The fridge needs restocking. The cat threw up. The bills won't pay themselves. There are always things—mundane, necessary things—that claw louder than the pleadings of creation.

I want to scream sometimes. Or run into the forest and refuse to come out until the trees grant me asylum. I want to stop having to choose between paying the water bill and buying paintbrushes. Between rest and productivity. Between surviving and living.

Because when does the making happen? When does the soul get fed?

This isn't a cry for pity. This is a war cry. A tempest. A feral note left on the door of the world that says: I AM STILL HERE. The artist in me, the queen of impossible things, she’s tired, yes—but she’s not gone. She's just waiting. Coiled. Gathering herself. And gods help the world when she has time and space again.

Until then, I do what I can. A sketch here. A scribble there. A poem fragment caught in the wind.

Because magic doesn’t die. Fairy tales don't die. They just go underground for a while.