And you walked away
And I saw fireworks imploding
Frame by frame
Like watching a movie in slow motion
From miles away
Up like a rocket ship ascends
Drifting up into space
And I'm running out of oxygen
I still kind of love these rare early Saturday mornings where the fog lies heavy over the point, giving the point a muffled, muted presence. The boys, the kids and the pets are all sleeping and I have my headphones, a large hot mug of coffee and a sudden discovery that what was previously a lightly-treading soft song is a deeply painful one upon examination of the lyrics.
My favorite kind.
My coffee is barely touched, words hardly finding time to get comfortable on my page when Ben appears, a warm hand on the back of my neck, a kiss landing on the top of my head. He pours a coffee and heads downstairs without a word (we try not to interrupt each other when writing) while I keep pushing letters around until they match the thoughts inside my head.
(That's a myth, actually and I perpetuate it. I've never found the words to properly articulate the way I feel, truth be told. But it's a challenge I've taken on nonetheless.)
I've been struggling lately in a different way that's the same. I'm having trouble sleeping again. My anxiety is through the roof about the smallest things. I feel like I've got one corner of the controllable universe grasped tightly in my hand like a sheet but one good hard flutter and it's going to be yanked away. I hate this feeling but it's one I have to ride along with until something else happens and then I'll be distracted by that and lose my way back to this.
Everyone says it's something that can be helped. Take this blue pill, or this red one maybe. Practice self care. Be mindful. Rest. Take sleeping pills. Take a vacation. Take a break, Bridget.
This is my break. I put on headphones and I fall in love with words and the melody to which they're sung because I can't find the words of my own.
My favorite kind.
My coffee is barely touched, words hardly finding time to get comfortable on my page when Ben appears, a warm hand on the back of my neck, a kiss landing on the top of my head. He pours a coffee and heads downstairs without a word (we try not to interrupt each other when writing) while I keep pushing letters around until they match the thoughts inside my head.
(That's a myth, actually and I perpetuate it. I've never found the words to properly articulate the way I feel, truth be told. But it's a challenge I've taken on nonetheless.)
I've been struggling lately in a different way that's the same. I'm having trouble sleeping again. My anxiety is through the roof about the smallest things. I feel like I've got one corner of the controllable universe grasped tightly in my hand like a sheet but one good hard flutter and it's going to be yanked away. I hate this feeling but it's one I have to ride along with until something else happens and then I'll be distracted by that and lose my way back to this.
Everyone says it's something that can be helped. Take this blue pill, or this red one maybe. Practice self care. Be mindful. Rest. Take sleeping pills. Take a vacation. Take a break, Bridget.
This is my break. I put on headphones and I fall in love with words and the melody to which they're sung because I can't find the words of my own.