It's a slow-wake morning. I'm tired and a bit sick (sinuses can be a bitch when it rains non-stop). I haven't been feeling like myself this week. I am out of touch. I am exhausted. I sleep and have the worst dreams. The lurkings of depression are bubbling back up. I start believing all good things are extremely short lived, I start expecting the worst once again.

I did some writing for the first time in months. I just wanted to sort out my brain, to set things neatly in piles (organizing is a junket by the way). I feel a little clearer but still messy. I now have little messier piles instead of one big messy pile. Not sure which is better...

I am doubting myself again. My abilities as a person. I have to keep pushing forward. I feel so unexpressed. So stopped up. When I think of being stopped up I get an ASL sign for it in my head (took two semesters but remember almost nothing). The motion in the sign feels so much stronger that the words. Language is a damn powerful thing.

I need to go to the beach. I feel trapped in my head. In my house. In my lack-routine. It's so exhausting. So too much. But life is too busy for the ocean. Ronald working all weekend and so many other things going on I can't keep my head straight.

I miss the quiet and the slow and the clarity I enjoyed just last week. I was present and willful. I knew what I wanted (or thought so). My head wasn't fuzzy. I know much of the feeling is due to being sick, and lord does sick spiral me down.

But here's some writing. And its a new day.

xo, C


Short stop to nowhere:

And afraid because can't sleep.

Because bone pops under machine trucks.

So "I get along without you" sleep, and naps

All afternoon. Blankets tender as a leaf.

My soul hot. My soul stiff. My lip tough.

I am a stubborn girl, a no-give-up femme fatale.

And I feel so little and I keep it on. And I feel so...

Exposed and stopped up. A back up chain of all the

Things I didn't say. To protect your feelings...

I would die.

Those times I wither. I open and tearful in bed.

Then the real me comes out-- then the depression

Slithers, tail up. So upset to not be my one and only.

And I exist. I know it. A real perpetual. A real mover

And shake back down to every day life. To routine,

Expectation, letting go. To fear.

I keep every word shot from the hip. Every

Merciful heave-ho.

I keep my knees up. My thigh high. I rumble on

A short-stop to something.

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