Slightly Unhinged

We met for a late lunch. This was unusual because we usually only meet on the weekends, Sundays usually, for a movie or dinner. We used to meet in the middle of the week, but now he's too busy with sod and I'm too busy with soccer and kids and everything else that always gets in the way. I had wanted to go somewhere overlooking the water, and we sat outside under the umbrellas. We're friends, he and I. Occasionally, our friendship slips past the normal boundaries......................................................................................

I am lying on my bed, checking my email. My laptop is in front of me, and the girls are in the other room. One of them has the shower running, and they're playing some game. The oldest is the younger one's servant (will wonders never cease?), and they seem to be playing house........................................................................

There's a story inside me, scratching to get out. The words-their meanings, their intent-can't seem to cleave to a single purpose. It's a baby who refuses to be born even though the labor pains assure you there's life and hope. This frustrates me, because it means that I have words left unspoken, emotions left unexpressed. They're a chorus singing in disparate keys. And the atonal quality of my stutterings-stories started, then stopped-is giving me a headache.
I am going through a slump.The self-assuredness I usually carry as a badge is coming unpinned. I won't let it fall completely to the floor, but like my attempts at writing, I seem to be stumbling. Missing the mark. My galumphing through certain instances has left me chagrined at times. It is because of this that the baby is breach, that the song cannot be sung.
With all this being said, I can't even finish this current thought. The baby refuses to be born; the song's chords have found no resolution. I have a welling need inside that refuses to be met head on. It's avoiding me like my colleague when she's done something she knows I want to confront her about (another set of stories entirely!). Unborn babies and off-key songs...even my metaphors are jumbled! I feel slightly unhinged.