The soap scent on my hands hints of chicken nuggets, and as I am huddled close to the laptop keyboard and lacking supper, this is giving my digestive organs undue cause for complaint. Of course, I could always raid the kitchen and find something decent to eat, but as exasperation has finally caught up with my brain's failed attempts to solve the world's problems, I am starving my grey cells in revenge. Unfortunately, my stomach does not care for this method of retaliation; however, it will have to deal with it. Putting something in my mouth right now would bring on vomiting.
Intending to retire early and sermon myself to sleep, a la Revelation-style, I found that this inconvenient body had other ideas, which is why, three hours later, I am curled up on the floor in the chilly back office, alone in the dark as I rattle away at this blog entry. Ellie Goulding's "Anything Could Happen" is playing in my ear buds (I keep putting it on repeat), and I find it far too addicting. While most of her music is hardly decent, there is now a total of four songs that I could keep on a revolving playlist all day depending on my mood, and this is one of them. The others would be "Human" (the harmony hooked me immediately, and after that the lyrics: "I am so scared of what will kill me in the end, for I am not prepared."), "Dead In the Water" (Mouse AU all the way), and "Your Biggest Mistake" ("But you let go 'cause your hope is gone... It's a shame you don't know what you're running from; would your bones have to break and your lights turn off? ... You tread water, fighting for the air in your lungs. Move closer, maybe you can right all your wrongs.").
Earlier in the day I also pulled up "Missing", by Evanescence. The song itself didn't appeal to me at first, but it happened to be one of those that, once I had heard it, such an impression was left so as to make forgetting it impossible. Now, it seems cruelly fitting.
Please, please forgive me
But I won't be home again.
Maybe someday you'll look up
and, barely conscious, you'll say to no one,
"Isn't something missing?"
You won't cry for my absence, I know;
You forgot me long ago.
Am I that unimportant,
Am I so insignificant?
Isn't something missing?
Isn't someone missing?
[...]
Please, please forgive me,
But I won't be home again.
I know what you do to yourself;
I breathe deep and cry out...
Isn't something missing,
Isn't someone missing me?
And if I bleed
I'll bleed
Knowing you don't care
If I sleep
Just to dream of you
I'll wake without you there.
[...]
Isn't something missing?
Isn't someone missing me?
Of course, not all of the music in my playlists holds to such a sober pattern. This morning Ariel popped her head into my room and asked if I could babysit Arava for a few hours while they moved the rest of their stuff from the cabin; having nothing pressing, I dragged myself up and carried the tot off for an afternoon of adventures. Carol's Pandora station was set for folk music, and while it was low enough so as to not be obnoxious, it was, in a way, irritatingly depressing, not to mention sleep-inducing (and, lest there be any ignorance regarding this fact, one does not relax one's guard when maintaining possession of a toddler incapable of staying in five square feet for more than four seconds). So straightaway I paused Pandora and called upon Coco-kun to aid me, pulling up Carmelldansen and Kurutto Mawatte Ikkaiten, and to those songs we somersaulted, rolled, and dived all over the living room. (Needless to say, I had removed the candlesticks, rocking chair, and Joan of Arc beforehand; Arava still managed to attack the iPhone and send the stereo speakers flying off the stand, a catastrophe which I speedily concealed to the best of my ability.)
A great part of the afternoon involved romping with a large, oblong exercise ball, blue and full of possibility for great imaginations. For a while we took turns running and belly diving over it to go rolling across the room (I mustered enough determination to actually indulge in rambunctious play for once, dizziness and all), and once Arava wearied of that we settled for a prolonged game of peek-a-boo, which also involved standing the ball on end and chasing her around it in order to eat her feet.
Surprisingly enough, she exhausted before I did, and we retired to the sofa with Coco-kun in order to scour YouTube for Elmo. The child adores all things Elmo, and she sat at rapt attention for a few thirteen minute episodes, cuddling against me with a pillow at her feet and her gaze glued to the screen. Presently I fetched her some medium cheddar cheese from the kitchen, and we nibbled cheese in companionable Elmo-silence, enjoying both the educational exploits of the toddler-Chaplin Mr. Noodle and the delightful flavour of our respective cheese slices.
As it happens, I shall miss her when she is gone; over the course of a month, twains, eggies, cheese, and wagons, we have become fast friends. Hey, we've even bonded over Sesame Street.
Aww.
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