breathing underwater.

I promised I'd write a little about my recent life, only now I sit here not knowing what to say. This happens to me a lot. I keep stumbling over myself, realizing that nothing much new ever happens to me, and so then feeling like I have nothing to talk to people about. I suppose--really--I'm feeling bleak and insecure. I am also searching for the light like a woman possessed, anywhere I can find it, to combat the bleak and the insecure. Music, food, poetry, painting, exercise, blogs, my family, my friends.

I guess this is the business of life, isn't it? To keep all your invisible pathways and windows flung open so that the light can get in. I know this and still I shut them, shut down. I go to bed. I sit and stare out the window, not-seeing what I could see and un-knowing what I know.

Could I talk to you about my health problems? I could, maybe even should, but I don't want to. They bore me. I'm getting really fed up with this trend in my life, that the only "events" are terrible ones involving my ridiculous excuse for a body. I am fed up with myself. I almost--and I know it's melodramatic, but bear with me--feel like this, the me that all can see, is not really me. Like I've been reincarnated into this defective husk as punishment for previous sins in previous lives. I feel there is so much left inside of me and worry that it will never, ever be allowed to show.

Right now there is a lot of doing what needs done. I feed my family and get on the elliptical and take my bath. I write out my meager budget and try to paint or scribble a poem. I go outside and look at birds. I pray. I feel all the pain and the aching of my body throughout and in between and I lock myself in the bathroom and cry, sobbing the silent sobs of a person so filled with grief that they can't make a sound. And then I wash my face and reapply my mascara and go on to the next thing that needs done.

I can't think about the future anymore.