Writing as lifeline. It might be sometimes. This morning yes.
POV as dredge. This one is the truest and the toughest. It really is. So? Emotional scenes from yesterday and today so far, it’s a blur in the middle of this, week three and nothing matters except if your fingers are moving over something trying to capture it. Not editing. You don’t do that till later. This is there this morning and so far have 490 words this morning and 27,199 total.
Sometimes you need something to sustain you through the hard parts of life. It’s possible to fall through the cracks and go too low. That is what my mother told me on her deathbed. It all happened so fast in those years. One death after another.
It’s after all that death that you see there is going to be an end to time, and that time will be finite. That one day you will die too. This is when you can begin to think about living. This is when you begin to get selfish about life. Your life.
It’s the first time you will ever think about that, maybe. Especially if you are a woman.
Somebody is supposed to hold you when you cry. This is how it always was. That men held women or men knew what to do, or men were the stronger ones. This is what you believed anyway, until this year, when he let you slip and fall through all of your beliefs.
It started ten years ago.
The series of losses that crippled your soul.
It was the morphine that sickened you, and the scent of the rooms. You never wanted to see them again.
They asked you to inject the morphine into your mother. You had three weeks to press the button, knowing she was dying. He stood by you, a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand and she was smiling at him not at you.
She was smiling the way that women smile at men because they are supposed to know more and you had collapsed, hadn’t you?
All you could do was cry.
He didn’t stay long. Just long enough to drop off the sunflowers.
back later….maybe. Glad for the 490, needs rest for 1667, and another 1667. Hopefully today. At this point it is random.