Day to Day to Day to Day. Repeat.
It's too long. This endless time which she finds herself focused on. Day in and day out. The monotony, the sameness. Is it Tuesday? Or Monday. No, Tuesday.
Again. Still.
What she hasn't done is laundry.
The discovery of an endless supply of underwear- most she never wears because who wears boy cut lace half-thongs in magenta that were purchased on sale in a three pack bundle? But go long enough without laundry and there they are, crumpled in a ball at the bottom of the drawer behind yet another boy cut brief with Everlast on the elastic, so old she can't remember their origin story.
In the grand scheme of things, this is but a blip in the ocean of her life. Five decades, and this is a couple of months, maybe a year or more when all is said and done. But the not knowing. The constant hum of high alert while suspended in ignorance of how we move forward is absolutely exhausting. Tinnitus of the mind.
She can write. Bake. Clean. Walk. Read. Watch. Laugh. Scream. Cry. Breathe.
Rinse, repeat, start again.
Those elusive and euphoric moments of complete suspension of reality; when she thinks about hopping in the car and driving to Montreal, and actually envisions herself walking up the spiral wrought iron staircase and turning the handle to swing the door open and then, like a blast of arctic air rushing into her lungs, she's caught short of breath. Again.
This is how the days go.
A whimper to a scream. Energy rising then pressure dropping and blanketing her psyche with a grey numbness.
Quarters and loonies. A mason jar of detergent. Two nubbly rubber balls she throws into the dryer to keep the load from tying itself into knots, erasing the static electricity.
If only they made them for everyday living.
Again. Still.
What she hasn't done is laundry.
The discovery of an endless supply of underwear- most she never wears because who wears boy cut lace half-thongs in magenta that were purchased on sale in a three pack bundle? But go long enough without laundry and there they are, crumpled in a ball at the bottom of the drawer behind yet another boy cut brief with Everlast on the elastic, so old she can't remember their origin story.
In the grand scheme of things, this is but a blip in the ocean of her life. Five decades, and this is a couple of months, maybe a year or more when all is said and done. But the not knowing. The constant hum of high alert while suspended in ignorance of how we move forward is absolutely exhausting. Tinnitus of the mind.
She can write. Bake. Clean. Walk. Read. Watch. Laugh. Scream. Cry. Breathe.
Rinse, repeat, start again.
Those elusive and euphoric moments of complete suspension of reality; when she thinks about hopping in the car and driving to Montreal, and actually envisions herself walking up the spiral wrought iron staircase and turning the handle to swing the door open and then, like a blast of arctic air rushing into her lungs, she's caught short of breath. Again.
This is how the days go.
A whimper to a scream. Energy rising then pressure dropping and blanketing her psyche with a grey numbness.
Quarters and loonies. A mason jar of detergent. Two nubbly rubber balls she throws into the dryer to keep the load from tying itself into knots, erasing the static electricity.
If only they made them for everyday living.
Love " Tinnitus of the mind." GREAT line!
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