The mess from my closet piled up in my bedroom is a reminder of (1) my pack-rat ways and (2) the oddly disorienting events of Thursday night. I can't explain my mood as the leak in the closet was hardly a traumatic event. I feel more out of whack with the universe than ever, as though life had been normal (which it had not) and then in one instant had been changed forever. Nothing has changed, and nothing has changed forever. But perhaps it is tied to all the other things going on that I don't want to talk about.
I will be relieved when everything is sorted through, cleaned up, and put away, as that may restore some of my sense normalcy—whatever that may be.
Saturday was a humid, dreary, dull day without any interest—no storms, no lightning, just overcast sameness. The garden was devoid of sunshine, butterflies, and birds, and even the constant din from Lake Shore Drive seemed muted. Everything seemed to be depressed and waiting for the "bend in the road" of the Anne of Green Gables books.
I finished a review and tried to take a nap, but now I can't sleep the sleep of the innocent. Something on my mind or in my heart, but I don't know what, won't let me relax. I ache.
The sun returned Sunday, and I thought my spirit might, too, but I felt just as painfully restless and unfocused.
I wrote another review, but I can't read any more than a few words at a time. Nor can I fall into the long, sweet obliviousness of the deep slumber I need.
I dreamed erotic dreams this morning.
J. keeps asking me if I am excited about my vacation in Ann Arbor, and I have to say that, right now, I'm not.
Wherever I go, there I am . . .