|If I lay here, if I just lay here...|
Understandably, it's that time for change again. To dig up my delicate roots just as they've started grasping their surroundings. I feel like a banana, my bruises are starting to show as my soft insides weaken.
Nothing tastes right and for the first time in a long time, food isn't interesting. I don't know what's fueling my body, keeping me going, but it seems to be enough for now.
As the sun comes out more, I find I'm going deeper into myself. I think I'll come out when I feel better.
I pull myself from my dreams each morning, vivid dreams, complicated dreams. Find that I'm nestled between pillow upon pillow and under blanket upon blanket. Digging yourself from dreams is difficult when you don't want to come back. Perpetually tired, yawning, sleepy. Perpetually blue, gray, white, black. Trying to scrape the sleep away.
But there are moments that are like lightening striking the cloud away. There is a moment of motivation, of creativity. But it's bogged down again, by time and prior commitments. I long for a quiet place with nothing more then a soft bed, decent coffee maker, white curtains and my old typewriter [which is sadly locked up solitary]. I miss the familiar hammering of the keys and the small winning dig from a finished line of words.
Small wins. I'm counting them, like stars at night or alarms to wake up rather then sheep to fall asleep. I'm counting small wins on one hand, using the other to stabilize. Baby steps and small wins.