Imaging what would come out next, I sit by my fireplace that is not lit and imagine it a roaring fire to burn away all the sick. I see the flames in my head, all the colors. Hear the crackling. It’s so real. I long for this vision to be a reality just so I could take a picture to share. Things get forgotten and left behind in my mind space when not shared. I need the “witness” to prove I was there and really thought that on that day. Memories are like a vapor, and trying to hold on to them makes them float away that much sooner. Instead of holding, they need to be set free, but sharing is the only way.
Thinking of posts doesn’t help if you don’t write them, yet I’ve been too sick to do much of anything but think. My daily life and noticing the beautiful mundane is what inspires my writing, but how can you be inspired if you never leave the house (some days never even leave the bed)?
My world is a narrow tunnel right now. I could tell you about how I will want something very specific to eat but by the time it’s prepared (10 min) it sounds disgusting and no one is allowed to speak of it again. I could tell you about the fact that this cold/flu from the depths of hell makes the gagging worse. Or about how my right ear has been plugged up for 3+ weeks and the equilibrium issues making me crazy. How about how my kids are still not “ok” since the move and I feel like it’s all my fault because I am the one that moved them away and I am the one not making it better. I can’t decide who is more low, me or my 7 year old.
These are the only things in the tunnel, everything else is outside of it, completely unaware that the tunnel is never-ending.
I feel the pull to share more, but I write it out and feel like a complainer and a girl stuck in a tunnel with no perspective. This too shall pass, yes, but at the expense of all my creativity and an entire holiday season and all my joy? I see the world going on without me, and feel left out, yet too weak to do anything about it. New emails coming in give me anxiety because I often don’t have it in me to reply, and then I get sad when none come in. Then the self-loathing kicks in again and I wonder how I could be blue when so many in the world are suffering so much (much) worse.
Joy is fleeting and I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to hit publish, but I will.