The Finnegan Papers

Saturday, Jan. 12, 2002 - 10:57 a.m.

whipcord

It's a beautiful morning outside. The sun is high, the air is crisp, and proudly crested cardinals land on my window sill, peeping in curiously.

But I can't shake this mood that's settled on me so heavily. Every fiber of my being feels like it's spun tightly into whipcord, so ready for sadness. And I don't know why. I thought that things were pretty good a few days ago, and now I'm just waiting to collapse in my own privacy.

What or whom am I waiting for?

I don't think that the people I meet regularly notice this. All they see is that placid, poker-faced expression, that women have said keeps them guessing. Walking enigmas, Scorpios -- that false impression of promise.

And I, I don't want to eat, drink, write, or sleep. I just sit in my corner, rolled up into this bolus of energy potential, waiting to burst.

~Finn

before - after