I feel shy and my throat is raw; I try as I might to wish a secret fort into life so that I could roll myself inside and nap the kind of nap that matters,
But I open my eyes, and I am still here, sitting on the bed, in a city that is so loud with a snoring dog and two sleeping cats
Every time I peel a layer back, a certain kind of tenderness arises and with it a wave of nausea—I search for a moment to see if I have somehow betrayed myself by sharing the truth of what I feel in this moment but I know before I answer that this is the only way to move forward
But we are more interested in things like numbing our feelings with drink and food and whatever else make it go away and even as i type these words, I feel the sugar rush through my veins of my own dip into the sweet patch and I pause to wonder again if I’m trying to hide anything with food or if it was just a night to indulge
For the joy of it;
And this starts the cycle of thought—What is healthy and what is not? Where am i in balance and where is it skewed? What work needs to be done and what part of the foundation is solid?
These questions rise and fall and I am sleepy and my throat is still sore (my body has developed ways to offer feedback on what no longer works and she is insistent on getting her message through)
Too much sugar, too much excitement over mindfulness and so my belly is full of things that sounded good at the time and how much of this is related to everything?
A few doors down, there is a party, and they are singing loudly; I close my eyes again and try a few more riddles to see if a fort in the forest will appear, beneath a canopy of birds in treetops
But I open them again and here i still am, in the same place I was but with the release of words in to space, softer, still