Sunday, Sulking, Sloth

There is something deeply sacrilegious about sulking around in yoga pants and a baby-t on Sunday. At first glance I would appear to be the epitome of a deadly sin; sloth. Eventually I'll drag my self out of these sheets to a soft ginger and vanilla bubble bath in an attempt to raise my spirits, but until I muster enough energy to do that I'm just going to cuddle back in next to this laptop and feel sorry for myself.

I listen intently to the weaving sound waves coming from the little speaker on my laptop. Harmonious chords sang by the Beatles echo in the song “Because”. Normally these lyrics are nonsense and good for a trip to senselessness. Today I think understand them. They seem to operate as the perfect soundtrack to my dour state. I think that my only reason for leaving this shelter of cotton sheets and country quilt would be to tip toe my cold feet down the stairs and sit at my precious out-of-tune piano.

The only experience of true love I've ever had is buried deep within the dusty crevices of those cracked ebony and yellowed ivory keys. I don't have to tell the music my feelings. The keys respond to my very touch reflecting each pent up and hidden emotion within me. If I cry the chords quiver, if I'm mad they echo and if I'm in love they flow like invisible doves spiraling in each other's harmony to into the sky.

I suppose it's time I crawl out of this slumber, take a bath and do something semi-productive today. If you look for me later, I'll be found next to my piano playing something dissonant and cold.