Barely a Flutter

The Angel hasn't flown, dears - she has been...away...

It's bumpy, and up and down, and sometimes more than I can bear to turn on the computer, keep up with all of the marvelous blogs in the world, keep hoping for a better day, try not to complain, complain, complain, and see to the care and feeding of my family.

Sometimes I am hot, or cold, or both, and not certain of myself or the world around me, loosely anchored, loosely affiliated with reality.

When the odd days, the bumpy days, the unutterably sad day come, I am afraid I don't have much to say here. In other places, I am present every day, if only with a photograph, a cartoon, someone else's humor, but here in my most deeply honest space? Silence.

I've been trying to convince myself that I am not trying to kill myself with my lifestyle (because food is so much better than a gun, a blade, a handful of pills - people are so much more sympathetic when it's sickness that takes one, and why is that?)(even smokers with lung cancer don't get an "I told you so").

Today, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. To be honest, I try not to look ever, but sometimes I can manage it and not flinch. Today? Couldn't even look up. Lucky I can do my hair in the dark and don't wear makeup - I could live entirely without reflective surfaces and be just...er...well, not fine, but...fine.

I'm going out into the rain, perhaps to be washed a little clean of this sticky, pernicious funk.