All the glorious fumbling

Persephone kills me with her posts. On a regular basis. Today, it’s this one. I needed to read these words today, to see these images, take note of these touchstones. Because I’ve been doing a lot of re-writing lately, and fuck — it’s exhausting. Tonight I’ve got nothing left, except a vague notion that I am distinctly uncomfortable.

Sometimes you can almost feel the planet spinning, you know? Sometimes I worry I’ll go flying off into the dark hinterlands. I worry that I’ve become a stranger to myself. That I don’t know the rules. That everything I thought was wrong.

Operating at a pitch only dogs can hear, it’s easy to lose your own sense of hearing. There’s only one remedy for all of this: retreat. Into the shell. Up the ladder. Under the covers. Onto the grass, the sand, the dirt.

I’m off in search of silence and that Still, Small Voice.

Photo credit: Jason J