I have no idea what I'm going to write. Words are piling up inside of me like magma building before the eruption, pressure building, small tremors presaging the upcoming explosion.
My internal editor has taken a vacation. There is no quality control. This is the stream of my consciousness, the merry go round of my attention, and the whims of my fingers as spelling goes right out the window. What do you mean the window is clossd?
I am lost in time. This happens more and more as I come unmoored. Not quite a week ago, I experienced a miracle, a PTSD triggered panic attack that visited and decided it was unnecessary, leaving as suddenly and as arbitrarily as it came with only elevated body temperature and heart rate to show it had existed at all. A grace I was able to accept as it came, appreciated, without grasping after it.
Today, nostalgia sent me to mine my own words for wisdom and emotion. The former was welcome, the latter, overwhelming and has left my ship overturned and grounded on a tumultuous shore, the rocks slowly breaking it into the pieces that may find their way into some future child's curious hands.
I seek the peace internal that comes not from conquering your environs but from conquering the frenzy of self. I was to be, be it bleeding or breathing. It is enough to be, and be well. Not well as an outcome but as a quality of being, to be with fullness of self accepting both what is and what I am.
I write. Perhaps you read. We are. Be well.
