the price of a dream

I submitted another bid. I've been working on it off and on for a couple of weeks. But, as usual, the bulk of the work gets done between moon and morning. I sent it off just a handful of minutes ago. I'm not unproud of what I came up with. But I'm also resigned. I don't know if I'll get the work. I don't know what I'm worth. I don't know if they will look at my estimate and laugh or ball it up angrily and throw it on the floor. And then pour something insulting on it. I really don't want to think about it. I'm just glad to be done. And in a way I feel cheated. Because I really had it in me -- in the past twenty-four hours especially -- to be terrribly self-indulgent creatively. I wanted to write and write and write. I had ideas all over the place. And my dining table is still cluttered with the art supplies Beulah and I were using when she came to visit. I'm sure I would have had a painting or two in me yesterday. But if I had let myself lean into that urge, all of my paintings would have been about guilt and procrastination. And I much prefer them when they are about my more girlish anxieties. It's just a shame I couldn't have spent the day spilling my guts somehow. I know I had a lot of product in me. And now, I can barely complete a sentence without being convinced it wasn't worth typing.

My teeth all feel sore. And there has been a persistent and unholy pain in my soft palate for several days now. It started as a sore throat, but then it completely changed its mind. If it's another sinus infection, I may just off myself. That last one was a study in torment. I'm not so terribly stoic, but I like to give the appearance of steely resolve and stalwart unflappability on most days. And, well, I failed at it.

I've canceled an appointment for this morning so that I can maybe get some sleep. I'll bet I will dream of hurting.