It's Monday Again?

I'm about to head out again. I didn't get in until late Saturday night. Doesn't seem like I've been here at all. So. What did I do with my weekend? World of Warcraft. What else? I figured the weekend was shot when I came in. Whatever plans I had of writing went out the window as soon as I realized I was going to get in so late. Oh, well. Regroup and get back at it, right?

Something odd happened Saturday night, which I'll probably be chewing on all this week. As I got closer to home, I had a panic attack. The closer I got, the more anxious and unsettled I was. I haven't quite figured out why yet, but I imagine it probably had to do with coming in cash-strapped yet again and another batch of goals going out the window. No hotel room this weekend. No writing. No recording. Another night on my mother's sofa.

I don't know. That's the first time that has happened. I've dealt pretty well with the current situation, I thought. So I don't know how to explain the panic attack. All I really know is that I got in so late on Saturday because I stopped in Wytheville, Virginia to check my mail and wound up playing a little World of Warcraft. I was perfectly content to stay in my truck. I don't guess there's any real point in being in a hurry to get home when there is no home to return to.

Now, however that may sound, this is not a woe-is-me thing. I'm just trying to figure this out. In the end, I suppose it's pretty clear that I need to get into those hotel rooms on the weekend to feel like I have a space of my own, if only for the weekend. That's the only thing I can think of the explain the panic attack.

One of my old poems came to mind this morning, and it's content probably expresses more than my pointless rumination here.

I've no circle of my own
Nor a cube to call my home
Adrift in the breeze
But far from free
And lost in other's realities.
It's a sad, strange thing
To have gnarled, useless wings
Watching the sky
And waiting to die
Counting moments to no end.
There should be more meaning
Or a chance, or a gleaning
Of arms for battle,
The man-child's rattle;
War or peace or something.
Instead there's this waiting
I'm alive, but life's hated
In losing days and weeks
Months that I seek
As life still slips away.
I've no circle of my own,
No fire nor warm home,
And walk among refuse
In the cold, sullen ruse
Of other's realities.

With that said, I think I should hit the road. This week's paycheck will see the first time since I left the house that I've had two good paychecks in a row. Except for the $150 advance I got last week, I have no bills due. No outstanding debts waiting to be addressed. I'm hoping from here on out maybe I can start to make a little progress.

Maybe then I can get back to being human and stop acting like some wounded animal that does nothing but sits around and licks its wounds, and wails at the moon about its injuries.

I would like that. Very much.