Silence is golden, and I'm a pauper at the moment. My brain just hurts. It's like a jellied - eel of chunky bites, poorly arranged and not achieving anything, just mulching around, being floppy. This wave of blank: it wafted by my way about a month ago, and now it's back again. I thought it had gone. I wonder if perhaps it's a cyclical thing? My body preparing for a return of oestrogen highs and lows maybe? Who knows. Whatever the reason I know it doesn't feel safe. As in, my mind is uneven, nobbly almost, and not being helped by my emotions (who take the reigns ninety - five percent of the time). Have I reached a point where nothing else can permeate? I think so. Sometimes I think words fall out of my head and onto a page, or a screen, before I really grasp what's occurring. Tumbling forth they release some of the pressure mounting. If I keep writing then maybe I can drain the excess enough, to level out the seas, and continue to ride the wave.
Ideally I would be in a small space right now, like the cupboard under some stairs. Or under the hefty, garden, pic - nic table we had as children: made of old railway sleepers and lashings of good spirit. I've a memory of a rainy day, one quiet, summer's afternoon. I grabbed my coat from the rusty, aged, metal hooks, in the hallway of our run - down, family cottage, and headed for the garden. My plan and execution was to fashion a waterproof lid, for my den, out of the perpetually - worn, shiny, night - blue anorak I had been gifted a year previous. As I slid under the table to play with the soil beneath, I placed the coat between the bench and the table top, resting bits of broken, old, orange brick at the corners roughly, to stop it falling down. It was marvellous! Snails crawled in to join me, like drunkards to a late night bar, and I gathered them up and stuck them onto my coat canopy, which was effectively fulfilling it's role. Their pace of life suited my headspace then, as it would now. They were track-able, reliable, not at all surprising, unlike a frog or a dog may be.
Is that it perhaps? Am I permanently on guard? Forever on the look out for potential mis - haps? Always looking ahead to spot the possible obstacles? Parenting is exhausting and at times like these, I worry that I won't be able to do it. I write this as I lay on my step - daughter's, empty bed, and listen out for my baby son to wake for his next feed.
Also, due by tomorrow morning is an assignment for my degree course, which sits, unedited, at a five hundred word excess, reference - less and silent, on my switched - off lap top. A care for the deadline should surely kick in soon...
