Tuesday, January 10, 2012
There is this certain time of night--wherein if I haven't done my day just right, and now I'm home alone with T.V. personalities, I start to feel ill. It radiates from somewhere in my stomach, but my stomach doesn't really have much to do with it. I have a certain need for something that I can't single out. I don't know if I want to hear my husband's voice, or give my old father a ring.
The taste in my mouth is wrong, but I'd rather not brush my teeth because that awful toothpaste would taste far worse right now. It just goes to show how stuck I am.
So tired but unable to sleep.
Freezing cold, but twisted up in sweaty pajamas.
Bored, but overwhelmed.
And so I think of taking a walk in the rain, to the old hardware store.
Or building something out of wood in the shop out back.
Even driving north until I reach Montana. I can't be sure, but something is telling me the lake water there is so, so drinkable, and I could run faster, and turquoise jewelry would look beautiful on me.
I think about the mountains surrounding this town. They hold still underneath their white blanket, and so should I.
I think about owls weaving through trees, catching all the secrets that night brings...while eyes and blinds are closed.
I wonder what I would know if I always kept mine open.
I think of my husband in the dashboard light, all wound up in snacks and country music, lifting heavy stuff, trucking on through this certain time of night.
It sure doesn't make sense, but I'm telling you, these are the things that I need. I never stop needing them until the sun comes up, and I see that I am where I always am. Believing gets harder. So I try to do another day just right, because I know how it feels when I don't.