some of the things that i thought i was escaping are still very much a part of my life and
i am downright sodden by it. almost struck motionless by the threat and the familiarity of the threat. and my disbelief that i am still experiencing something i thought i had made this disastrously difficult choice to escape.
i feel like an idiot for my shock and awe still being alive and well in this, the third month.
i am trying these days to focus on something other than escape, as that part is finished for me. the escape was made.
but i am trying to see myself as fertile with it, ripe for a planting.
a big bag of dirt swinging lumpily by the door of the shed, dripping potential.
can a thing swing lumpily?
i tell you, a real future as a writer, this one.
sodden is a great word though.
i want to be martin's aunt joan, in doc martin. anyone? thats what i am aiming for. maybe surprising as she clearly has twenty years or more on me, but i obviously have issues. I need more chickens i think. and some large billowy linen shirts. and a low-ceilinged kitchen.
i would really, really,
really, have liked escape to be a real thing. but it isn't. just a change, a hard and continuously sad change. just another stone on the road and i am very tired of trying so hard to frame it positively.
I'm taking my lumps, see?