The Language Of Ice Cream
Ever have those days when you really, really want to write something - purge your clogged brain, sweep out the dustier corners of your soul, open the windows on your heart and let some fresh air in - but you just can't? One of those days where your fingers feel like dead weights as you trail them across the keyboard in a vain effort to bring your thoughts - which seem to stick together and cling to the sides of your brain like so much cerebral peanut butter - out into the open where you might unstick them, get them moving again? Ever have one of those days? I'm having one today.
I think that it's a hangover from weeks (months, depending upon how you look at it) of fretting and fussing over things beyond my control. Now that the sources of most of my more pressing anxieties seem to have been eliminated - Jasper is, if you didn't see the update to the last post, fine - I'm at a loss. I'm happy, but exhausted, and wary of giving in too fully to happiness (a wariness that is tiring in itself), because, you know, you never know when the gods are going to smack you down again and so I'm kinda caught between happiness and this wariness which is a kind of creeping anxiety and that kind of tug-of-war leaves you feeling stuck, locked in place, legs braced against movement lest you topple over and land face-first in the mud. So even though my brain is clogged with thoughts and my heart crammed with feeling and it would feel so good to throw open the windows and let the air and light in and the dust and shadows out, it just feels impossible right now because I'm locked in a bit of an emotional stalemate with myself.
So, no more words today. Just ice cream.