I’m restless, looking for a warm space of comfort that feels like mine. Suddenly the adventure is cold and I want to curl up and belong.
I wander and fidget and cannot get comfortable. My bones are cold. I make soup to remember how it felt when I was me in another life.
I don’t want to wake, I don’t want to sleep. I just want to go – but I don’t know what that means. Why does my skin grow uncomfortable? Why am I so tight? I want to snap! Keep moving. Where to?
Electricity scratching under my skin; I’m numb and impatient with this world. Can’t sit down, there is no me-chair. Can’t relax, there’s too much noise. It’s all in my head. Stupid, stupid, stupid – everything seems ‘done’.
I clasp at fragrance, sunlight, leaves dancing for momentary ease. But I cannot stay eased, I am shrivelling up. Time and discomfort are etched deep as lines around my eyes. Listlessness hangs in my hair, sags; discomfort dimples my let-go skin and frazzles my ends. Moods scatter across me like weather patterns on fast forward. Who am I? (Just a moment ago, I knew.)
I blog, it soothes me like stringing beads.
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