It's damned cold outside. And I always sound so...depressed when I write lately. But I'm not, really. I promise. Just jittery with inactivity. And that haunting feeling that life is going on in the outside world and I'm just not participating. Knowing that things are happening...without me.
The sheet of ice on our street is still intact, but we've braved it a couple of times now- to get to the store and the vet. Mundane tasks. But surprisingly not comforting in their mundaneness. What to do, what to do...
What to do is take a nap. Then start the cycle of compulsively checking my email accounts- all three of them. Over and over. Something has to happen. Something has to change. There. A meeting request. But I can't accept- because I'm not on the network. Damn. There. A message that actually begs for my attention. But I can't answer the question- not on the network. Damn.
And in the background the feeling that my clock is ticking towards some kind of end. Well, hells yes. Always. Keep that thought at bay- buy more things. Keep that thought away- focus on something else. Anything else. Like that ever SO important email from someone at work. Right. Be the worker bee. Be the carpenter ant. Just keep busy- that will keep everything safe. Everything in its right and proper place. Wash your hands 32 times, or your mother will die. Don't step on that crack- you'll break her back, and she won't love you anymore. The anxiety shuffle. No song written to accompany it- because music would call attention. And you're trying to divert attention, right?
No depression here, chief. Only sunshine- brittle, cold and pure. Blue skies reflected in steely blue water. Container ships docked in sight- being loaded and unloaded with sparkling commerce. The steel mill belching steam into the sky- we've been assured it's only steam. But the house is coated in dark, black soot. Hmmmm.
Agitation like in the washing machine. Only nothing coming clean. Just keep typing. The words will spill out. Like tepid, colorless blood on the page. Slowly seeping into the cracks. And if you spray the proper chemicals on them, they glow under black light. Remember the lessons of CSI. Because if you spot the serial killer before he gets you, you win a prize! And Nancy Grace will be so proud of you.
The wind is blowing sparkly ice crystals against the windows. It sounds like hail. But it's shiny. And pretty. And cold. And anxious. Remember the cracks. They're underneath, between and within. Let it all seep down. And fill them up. Because then it'll be solid. Warm. And all will be just fine. Just. Fucking. Breathe.
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