Wr1tt3n0ne

Bunches and bunches
2020-10-22 22:45:22 (UTC)

Expectations...

Do I have any heading into my weekend with Mr. Curved Line?

I feel the melancholy pulling at me and I wonder why? It's been a good week, productive and sweet. I've spent time with my family, playing games and watching shows, laughing together over our favorites. It's been long walks and constructive talks, piecing together solutions out of what we have on hand, my husband and I. There's even been romance and sex, both remarkably satisfying. I haven't even a care in my dreams, they are all of finding every little need fulfilled. In one dream I found money and pizza, rather oddly along a river's edge, but both were timely and helpful. Even the horror I sequester within myself, has been mild enough for a child's party. Only a touch jarring, nothing overtly terrifying and apologetic to see me wake myself. The darkness within me misses me and wishes I could stay longer in the dream!

So what if I am slowly, just idling around in circles. Where have I to go, at any rate? I managed to reconnect with my hair dresser and he's happy to have me back again. Everyone is having fun considering what hair color I may opt for next week. While I try to force a smile, nothing is wrong, per se, however my smile feels as forced as it is. The parts of my life most off track are actually seemingly self correcting, all the while praising my insight. Perhaps the smoothness of my life spoils the happiness of it? That without bumps, I cannot enjoy the victories? Hogwash! I nearly ended my relationship, the very one now doing so exceptionally well, with Mr. Curved Line, just last week. Was that not a sufficient, self inflicted wounding? Surely, it counts as a reasonable foray into the darkness that pulls on my heart every now and again.

Perhaps I need to sleep and eat a bit more, as the sadness steals my appetite, I easily forget to be hungry for much and now have fully downgraded my diet to where I wished it to be without having any of the extras I had grown accustomed to. Maybe I am just famished and it's presenting as lethargic malaise. Except, except, I feel fine, as well as I typically do. With more exercise than is normal for me, several miles in fact over the last week as I have refused to take a night, or a day even, off of my walking schedule. It is a cherished time where I get to talk at length with my adorable husband and stretch my legs a bit. Still, I'll admit that I am overdoing it some.

And my sleep patterns leave me asleep during the entire of the morning, or very nearly all of it with only a minor awake time prior to 11 am. You see? I'm fine, well rested, sort of, since my bedtime has ranged straight through til 3 ish. I know, it's not ideal. But I cannot seem to put my phone down until I have read the equivalent of the entire newspaper. Though, these late night hours are not especially noteworthy for me, after all I am an insomniac (recovering, ha!).

Still I just caught myself having the most forlorn of sighs. I could tell you all the reasons why my life is going well enough, good even, but it seems too hard to muster the will to do so. I am not hopeless, mostly because I often fail to have hope, not in the I want it all to end (that was last week), no in there is no sensibility in having hope, rather it is best to invest oneself in outcome over fantasy fashion. Still, I miss the twinkle in Hope's eye, the mischievousness of it all. There's something so forbidden about hope in the world now, in the midst of a pandemic, on the edge of ruin that has a siren's call to my heart of hearts. Notwithstanding all my deflated sighs, I feel that I should harbor more hope, more faith, more joy than I do currently.

That I should go to sleep like this fills me with hopelessness that my cloud should pass. Never having been one to sleep off much of anything and indeed, morning's light has often found me more entrenched, not less, in my despondency. But another day closer to utter wreckage, that alarms me. I am not fun like this. I Eeyore the situations and people around me, ostensibly because misery must love company, but really because it is a catching disease being morose and I am an excellent vector.




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