Gloriously · Batty

things just don't get any easier, do they?

It started to, then I dropped it again.\\\

I suppose "argh" isn't in my spell check.

time for something insane.

is... where?

At mom and dad's?

In Atlanta?

At a farm I have only ever visited in a dream?

I guess really it's the ultimate question. We tend to scuttle toward the nuclear womb at the first sign of high tide, but I don't know where that is anymore. I want to go home, but I keep adding to the puzzle, rather than solving it. I only know that every day is a little shorter. Each year passes more quickly, whether the familiar smells waft past at the same pace. But what is same? What is only parallel? And what about when you watch yourself through the looking glass of what you know isn't real, even when it "Is." ?

At least the ice cream tastes the same on both sides.

Who turned out the lights?

Never have I come so close to genuinely believing that killing myself would be easier than the decision I have to make. I love life. I do not want to kill myself. But I have now seriously contemplated it. the ultimate test of who to make happy is about to play out, and I simply do not know what to do.

To think of us again.

And I do.

I can't bear the thought of hurting him. And I can't bear the thought of not loving him. He excites me and brings me a future I cannot fathom. But he warms me, or tries to, at any given moment and unselfishly knows me and wants the best for me. And will sacrifice for me.

And he does not. Or maybe hasn't yet had the opportunity to.

One thing is for certain. I am surely a complete nonce. How has this happened?

How have I allowed it?

I am in love with my husband. No matter what. It's odd to say something like thaT, I guess, but my life has been in such a a state of flux that in the not-knowing-what-is-up-or-diagonal, I have lost my place a bit and have thrown wrenches into my own story.
But I just looked at a comment he made on a picture from our recent trip to France and it reminded me...


...that he really does love me back. It isn't that I ever genuinely question that so much as it is I forget to remember.

Comfort makes us numb. Complacent.

Or... I don't know. It makes you question what it used to be like before you were sure of things. Before you trusted, and how gaining that momentary trust was so sweet, but that struggling for it made it that much sweeter.

This makes no sense to anyone but me I hope. Or maybe I don't, as I choose to put it here for the random to see.








My father has cancer and I have no idea what to do about it, except scream, internally, at great length.