It starts with not wanting to wake up. Waking up inevitably wins. Not wanting to take a shower. Not wanting to change out of pajamas. Not wanting to go outside. Not wanting to leave my bed. I get hungry. it's not worth it to actaully do it. All because I am waiting for one big thing to fall into place. That one thing is dependent upon another person. Waiting for this runs over into waiting on everything. This is stagnation in wake of impending failure. Failure.
It starts with a dull, hollow ache in the barrel of my chest. Not wanting to be strong anymore. Wanting to be selfish. Wanting to say, knowing there is nothing to be done about it. So, I mourn. I give myself one day, when I the months have built past what can be numbed and closed up in a dresser drawers until my time is complete. I sleep with the tissue box. Fists full of soft white papery wrapping for my quiet crying. Guilt for having this in control of my time and schedule. Need for it to be. So, I stay in bed and cry in silence. Until the pieces let up to be patched together again. Patchwork lady. I am a patchwork lady. A lady I surely must be. Must stride forward. A Lady. Lady Patchwork. lady Triumphant. And patched together, for the time being.
I get out of bed. I shower. I change out of my pajamas. I eat.
I rise up. I carry on.
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