It's been a year. Since the pandemic. Since the move. Since schooling the kids from home. I've been surprisingly even-keeled through most of it. But the edges are wearing and curling away.
I felt the breaking apart tonight. In bed. Not cleaving, but splintering. Or waking. There's a low groan of antsy frustration. I've known it most my life, off and on. But it's been integrated for the most part into things I can access, ways of being that we can embody together. Now, it stirs, pulling away a little.
Trying to be patient and exercise curiosity about it, I begin with remembering where it's taken me before. I find myself in a bar. Kissing a stranger on the mouth. Perhaps going home together. It feels like anger but it comes out like sex. And then somehow -after all that- it collapses and I'm just me again.
I assume it's returning because my life is so cooped up, comparatively. Most peoples are. Perhaps there are other reasons, but I don't know where to look. Perhaps it doesn't even matter.
What brought me here is the prospect of a safe place. We've let much out here before. And there's no where else to bring it, anyway. There are no bars open. No travelers from afar to meet in the hotels. And the windows for such things anyway are exceedingly narrow. There's something of a recovery period, a kind of coming home to self, that takes alone time, which I have hardly any of.
I am more curious than nervous about this for now, and the nervousness is just about whether it might build since there's no means of outlet on the horizon.
