I long to sort things out. To empty things – cupboards, shelves and boxes of all those objects, that stuff that I keep because I don’t have the time to decide whether I want to or not. I fantasise about empty rooms, about starting again, all over again. But I can’t. Not yet. Not yet.
It stopped. Nothing came out. I tried to sleep it away, to wake up and find the world as it was. But it wasn’t. And then that poor man took his life. The water came back but it wasn’t what it was.
Rest in peace. Forgive us for we knew not what we did. x
It’s almost a daily occurence. They say it comes with arthritis, that the back is affected by difference in posture and walking. Yoga helps, but mostly I just want to not move. It jabs, aches and pulses. My poor little body. How many years, I want to ask on its behalf?
It’s an accumulation of planetary stuff, I suppose, but it doesn’t half make me anxious, and the burst pipe on the main road was enough to set it off all over again. The sight of that precious water gushing out utterly threw me. We tried to report it but they wanted none of it. No one at the other end of the phone and the online software was hopeless. Does anyone care?
I knew it was coming, that call from the library to return all my books. It feels good to not resist. I fear letting them go. But must.
I think of her in there, in that ward. She said that there were just three other women. I hope it is more comfortable for her than last time. The last time that was only last week. It feels like something is rushing, rushing towards an end. Is it? She sounds just as low, though a little more defiant (in her refusal to eat the ice cream). How will it end?
She’s back in hospital. There was a secondary bleed in her brain. Her son jokingly said that it was all in an effort to avoid her birthday. It must be grim for her. I hope they are kind.
I should say letting her be. It’s hard. And not doing so rattles me. She should be able to decide whether to eat and drink or not. And it is hard to let go. To let go, that is, of her place in our, my life. Her wishing to die unsettles. It provokes a premature grieving for what is going to be lost. And she becomes the instigator of it rather than Nature or chance. Let it be. Let her be. No or yes?
She’s not exactly refusing food. It’s not a hunger strike. But she is choosing not to eat. She’s says she is not hungry, and that is probably true. She is low., lower than I’ve known her to be. But I think it is more a case of choosing dying over living, and that for an outsider like me, is hard to accept. And yet I must.
Some early mornings I am assailed by it. I try to turn it around into something real, something to welcome. It takes time, and then the daylight comes. And he wakes.