There’s a style of writing I want to emulate. But it’s amorphous. The best I can do is have you imagine a rainbow and focus on the spot where it transparently dips into the horizon. It’s that right there.
Or let me say it this way: the moment of jumping into the unknown, freeze-framing it, and analyzing the sensations.
Off-topic, but also maybe not, the shoulds and should-nots exhaust me. So instead, I bounce off their walls like a trampoline, using them as a jumping-off point. Or I cast them out entirely, the way a slamming door startles every bird into flight.
Right now, I feel insecure.
The worms sitting atop my sternum are wriggling. But also, the space that is me feels like hot wax dripping into a puddle beneath my chair. And you know how damaging its dried adhesion can be to the carpet.
Honestly, I feel sorry for myself and don’t know how to help. A double whammy of awesome.
I deserve the insecurity, I think. Deserve to hang sopping wet from a clothesline in a rainstorm.
Whatever it is, I don’t like this sense that a Jack-in-the-Box is wound up tight, preparing to unleash its wrath.
And to add one more log on the fire, I’ve decided I don’t grieve well.
When I don’t feel, or when I’m unaffected, I see that as a win. I’m adjusted and healed, I tell myself. A badge pinned to my chest.
But am I?
Because the person I just spoke to has a living, breathing, grieving relationship with their dead loved one. And because I don’t, I must be inadequate.
Let’s file this one under maybe I’m overthinking it, or maybe I have some deeper work to do.
Either way, it’s been a long day. I survived the tornado watch and the tornado that touched down five miles north of me, and now I’m zoning out and want to hold hands with Dave on the couch, watching some mindless TV.
Later.
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