I Blow My Mind

I sit here on my mattress of air; unnervingly content. On my television screen plays a movie set in Paris in the 1920's. A writer meets some of his literary idols and is blown away by how human they seem. I must admit that I am somewhat blown away as well.

At the same time I peruse through the first drafts of some short stories I've written this past year. I believe they are more than first drafts. I do not like to edit much of my own worded significance. Usually I prefer to add more words to an already big pile of words and watch the pile even itself out. It is quite a sight to witness.

Now I think of what to document next. Perhaps I must wait a while longer. Perhaps I'll analyze some poetry. Line by line. Verse by verse. I shall blow my own mind.

So Delicate

This is the fourth one that has given up on me. Why must an air mattress be so delicate? Can it even be called a mattress? Obviously I know how delicate air can be. But why did I figure that a "mattress" filled with air could be much more durable than air itself? Perhaps I was asking for it.

For that matter, why are actual mattresses so damn costly? Last night I applied a generous blotch of black acrylic paint to the tear but air still escaped from it. The paint dried quickly but now I am not sure if it will hold. I suppose I should not care much if it doesn't. Why must an air mattress be so delicate?