Nothing, Nada, Nincs or Funny Little Space

I haven't written because I don't know what to say.  I'm here, treading water maybe, or walking in place, or just duct-taped to the couch.  I might not be here at all.  Maybe I'm somewhere else.

There are small joys, sure, but neither the deep-sads or deep-joys ask to be written.

Or maybe they do but they're too hard to write.  I'm too tired.  Too somewhere-else.  Too in-the-same-damned-place.

I guess the reason not to write is that part of me is waiting for a shiny plan to reveal, and I don't have one.  Which is okay most of the time except for when I think about it.  This would be fine, good odds, for someone with a calmer mind; small pills melting metallic on a tongue, eyes glazed, butter brain.  But there's a terrier in mine and the yips hurt something awful.  So, it's all a mess, as usual, and as you can see.

At church the other day (I know, weird) an older woman in a red sweater met my gaze and asked, "Could you use a hug?" but it wasn't a question.

I stuttered, and then said "Always," which is the truth, but I felt hyper-aware of my smile, suddenly it was painted on and my cheeks cracked from the strain.

I wonder how long I will have to peel.  What to do about the chips and gunk that gather under the crescent moons of my fingernails.  How much I will keep swallowed, how long I will keep the key swallowed so I can't open or release anything.

Maybe (not maybe, definitely) this is scrambled and not cohesive or threaded, but I have been away from this space for so long, in another funny little space instead, and I want to send something out into the universe.

I heard this quote the other day.  If you don't transcend your trauma you will forever transmit it.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.