Wall … ouch. Wall … ouch. Wall … ouch. Wall … ouch.
Just call me Lumpy and hand me a helmet, please.
My house may be made of wood, but brick walls are everywhere, and I’m bloody tired of banging my head against them.
Spin, spin, spin, stop, step forward and, smack! … the wall of sadness. It gets no thinner, no shorter, and I’ve yet to find a door through. I’m learning every chink and seek out some when I need to feel specific pain in a hurts-so-good sort of way when I worry about scabbing over.
Spin again, step, bang, and it’s fear I run into.The how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-make-it and where-the-hell-am-I-going wall that sends me stumbling down dark corridors searching for the tiniest flicker of light somewhere, anywhere.
Spin, lurch, and smack into loneliness, missing people, yearning, regret.
Turn away from that one and slam straight into frustration, had-enough-of-this-shit, doing-the-best-I-can-why-isn’t-it-enough exhaustion that makes me want to lie down on the cold, hard floor and curl up into a ball.
Some days are better than others. This is not one of those days.
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 
Some days are not worth getting up for, but others, when the sun rises over the sea and your children open sleepy eyes and smile with innocence at your frustration, those days make it all worthwhile.
Yep!
In case you were wondering what that banging was that sounded like an echo. That would be me banging my head on the other side of the wall. Perhaps we should start a band of brainless percussionists. I’ll even give you top billing, how does “Sandra and the Wall Bangers” sound?
Although I think “brainless percussionists” is a redundancy, I’ll go for that!