Usually- or at least I fancy “usually”- I try and come up with creative ways to describe my mind- allegories, stories, parables- yet now, I don’t have the spirit to even try. I’m worn out. Down. Raw. Tired. Hollow. Sore. Chris Cornell’s voice is playing on loop in my mind- “… sitting in the corner like wet ashes with x’s in my eyes…”
My house is a disaster. I can’t even find a place to begin, and if I could, I don’t know that I’d have the gumption to start. It’s like the dutch child with their finger in the dyke; if I move from where I’m holding up the wall, another part will just spring a leak. I’m paralyzed, and lying down and going to sleep just sounds so much better than stretching my exhausted, quivering arms to try and stop another breach. So tired.
Eighteen months and counting…
Thoughts swarm my head like vultures on fresh carion. What next? How do we keep our house? Where is the help for us? We just want to work- to pull our own weight. The tunnel is so dark, my eyes ache for a glimmer of light. The darkness plays tricks on me- I feel things, see things that aren’t there, and lash out against things imagined, collaterally hurting those close to me in the dark.
A house of order? My yearning mocks me.
There is no order here except the Order of Waiting. And getting in each others way- while waiting. We have our thick baskets of Worry around our necks. They make it hard to get close. The baskets creak and strain, letting the Other know they are too close- to watch out, or the contents may spill in the dark, and then who knows what will be set free. It’s better to lug them around- at least we know where they are, the Worry.