to sleep, perchance to scream

I'm starting a secret blog (that will purge away secret stains and pains and drains on this finicky life,) you'll never find it, maybe you will. I'm staying up and not working, not working, because home sometimes just wants to mean a glass of wine and a sigh of release.

Can you hear it? I can't. I haven't had a released moment in ages, this heart is always beating too attentively, every instant is pitter patteringly hyperactive, manic, maniac, maaaaaaaaama?

This is when the child cries for help, "save me from the unmanageable world, Mother, who hath brought me into this unfortunate struggle where I pee on myself and my stomach hurts and then..."(and yes with a Stewie-like British accent)...but forget receding into infantile helplessness, how about, how about, slowing down this over-stimulated nervous system. Less coffee more REM? Less stress more sex? Less late nights more massages and long walks on Greek or Italian or French or Brazilian or Caribbean beaches, peaches, soft yellowish relaxation zones.

That's what this life requires perchance. A chance to dance, to dance, to dance.