April 7, 2012

On the sheets the refracted winter light is beautiful. Soft, caressing the folds and valleys of the tossed wool blanket. But working, always thinking, worrying, working, the moment is lost on me. My favorite time of day when busy-ness fades into the languid pace of the darkness sucking the light from the sky. When the clip-clop of shoes hurrying at the frantic pace of my mind slows to match the gentle shushing of the evening wind slipping around corners and through the naked branches of the trees. I hate this, I think. I hate what i have to say and hate the company of others who feel quite the opposite. When will my mind and body glide like the soothing night wind? Not as long as there is resistance. Birthing is a painful process that I haven’t quite accepted.


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