Lately it seems I can barely assemble my scattered thoughts to form a few meandering sentences, let alone an entire blog post. And still my fingers twitch with the need to get something written down, as if I were afraid of losing this, my present and my immediate past, and I need to grapple them to the ground.
I've been having a recurring dream of someone fixing me breakfast. Peonies and sunlight on the table, tea and fruit and toast. (Just tea would be enough to be honest, it's the most comforting beverage, even in this heat.)
Really it's just this ridiculous, persistent fear of not coping by myself, although every day I prove to myself that I do get by, I do stay together, I do manage. There's nothing to be afraid of.
And yet my shaky hands are back and I find myself wanting to be taken care of, no matter how much I usually resent it. I want to not have to think about anything, I want to rid myself of duties and worry and fear. Thank goodness it's summer, but there still seem to be too many things to get done.
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