What is it I’m fearing? Getting old? Death? I don’t know anymore. But this fear has my whole body stuck in the ground and I can’t move. I’m stuck in one place, unable to reach for the things I treasure most. I don’t believe things happen for a reason. I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe that what I believe has any intrinsic value.
I am working late tonight. Only five and a half years–Blake will be 8, Lulu (if she ever comes) will be 5, I’ll be 50, and I’ll be free to be their Mom. I’ll be home when Blake gets home from school. I’ll make the beds and do the laundry and go to the store with one of those old-lady carts (instead of my car). I’ll sing and play the piano again, I’ll make art, my heart will shine once again.
I am so starved for the meat of me, whatever that is. So lonely in my soul, so empty in my life.
Go ahead, call me bourgeois (however you spell it). I’m fond also of “dilletante” (however you spell it). Or “whining b!@$#E^”. That has a nice ring to it!
