Morning until night is not a problem. In the morning the sun comes up and the birds sing. Squirrels run across the roof. There are children's voices and the sound of doors opening and closing. At night there is the sound of stories being read. The leftover smell of dinner and the hum of the dishwasher. Failing light and soft wind. Or thunderous clouds spilling frozen rain.
Only the one day to the next is the problem. Are there numbers attached to the day? Are there words? Do the same things happen? If they don't, do you notice? How is this confusing? I can't make the words fit the meaning. There are stretches of time. Months even. They skitter across the calendar and bump into one another. They press their weight upon me. They squeeze the air from my lungs.
And somehow people around me continue at a speed that makes sense and I am plowing through sludge. My feet stuck in treacle. In tar. Something thick and unpleasant. I move and there is only the hint of motion. Yet all around there is activity. And people's voices speaking of the wonders of the ordinary. The beauty of the routine. Simplicity that is beyond my reach.
And the sun comes up and the sun goes down. And the only thing that happens is the lengthening of the things I Meant To Do. The Things About Which I Feel Guilt. This weight. The incredible weight of air as it pushes against the earth. Spinning me into the ground.
Time is eating my words and soon it will swallow me too.
I don't like the feeling.
I want to rest.
But rest doesn't work. Only fighting works. Only the long, punishing pugilism of beating back the beast. And I am so tired. Can't I appoint a champion? I will give my favor-- a sleeve or a scented handkerchief. I will watch from the stands and wave. Someone else can do this. I just need a rest. To step out of time and return without this sense of unreality.
This is what five days of gray and rain can do.
Gratefully: the sun came out at some point
Absolute Squat (other than religiously taking my meds)
Quaker, teacher, parent,