...thinking tonight how everybody I know belongs to somebody else.
Even the animals I love are borrowed, and when I'm gone too long my own cat gives me the cold shoulder, goes out to sleep in 40 degree weather rather than in my cozy, slovenly bed with me.
(Definitely a joke in there somewhere!)
Sometimes the depth of living alone inundates me, as though I am standing on a tiny, barren island watching the ocean flooding up to swallow me whole -- or worse, leave me floating, and still looking for what might save me.
The fathomlessness of being lonely and the worst part is feeling that somehow I have only myself to blame.
Using substance as a cotton batting bc I don't have anyone else to do the job -- to wrap themselves around me and say I got your back. Hard to imagine tearing the batting off and just being one raw nerve.
Guess why making up fictional worlds, and peopling them so crucial; little forays into the memory of past loves and even smaller ones into the scary hope for any new ones.
My shelf life getting so short, I can feel the expiration date, expiring.
Focus on the crescent moon in the indigo blue of pre-dawn, the morning star hovering nearby; the sublime peach announcing sunrise, the birds singing, the books to read, the generosity of those around me.
Say it like a prayer. Say it, don't stop.
Refuse to feel the hole around your soul, or the pull of the upcoming solo grave. Make up funny epitaphs instead. Whoever said this world was made for happiness, anyway? Only mothers murmuring fairy tales. Only mothers, praying that you live. That you stay alive.
