Worrying, for some (especially over-thinkers like me), has the potential to become a full-time occupation. The brain chunters away below the surface of whatever else is going on in life, taking in the view, and coming up with the worst possible situation at any given moment. Advertisements
There are moments in life, which I imagine to be a bit like getting struck by lightning (only less painful, and without all the damage from burns and whatnot (maybe this is a terrible metaphor, but stick with me.))
If approximately 70% of the adult human body is water, then I wonder how much is required to lubricate the imagination? I wonder how much liquid is necessary to allow neurons to glide into unexpected constellations, sparking new thoughts, like particles colliding in a nebula, creating chain reactions and eventually, stars.
“I’ll be home in five.” It’s the kind of thing we like to say; to know in a very short time we’ll be back in a place of belonging, of safety, of the normal everyday where-we-BE. Lucky us, to have that. Lucky us, not to be sheltering from warfare, or schlepped across countries against our…
Something occurred to me the other day, whilst walking*: I’m not un-fall-in-love-able-with. Or un-fall-in-love-with-able. Either will do. The point is, I’m not. Probably. Here’s the thing…
I was asked the other day if I was still in love with You. The conversation to that point had washed up gently on various shores, and the ebb and flow of communication was peaceful. My friend and I had drifted sleepily through the conversation, languishing in its peaks and troughs as time went by.…
I think I know why people leave self-reflection for the week before the new year. Not the small self-reflections, you understand – not the “Oh, I should have thought of writing that on my list and now I have to go out again” kind, or the “Why didn’t I learn this last time I did it?” kind…
“Write what you know.” That’s what they say – the anonymous ‘They’ so often quoted when the speaker is trying to weight their opinion – as though knowing something enables you to write about it; as though through knowing, your writing would make sense. I could write what I know. I could tell you so…
There’s a place in my life, which gives my stomach a little twist of anxiety when I think of it; a definite mental tug, trying to suck me back in. I need a sharp intake of breath and a deliberate effort to focus – to shake the mental dust from my metaphorical heels, and stay…
Is there a danger to weaving words to accompany half-formed thoughts? Is there potential for something to slip through the holes in the net where the edges don’t meet, and the words soldier on regardless, trying to crochet their way valiantly around the nothingness? Everything is something (maybe) but time is money and money is…
