Stuck

I’m stuck. I’m stuck and my body is stuck. Stuck in a fug of fear. And it makes me, as he told me this morning, “bad company.” I know this, only too well. I suggest he goes away for a bit, visit his brother. He says he doesn’t want to. If I could, if it wouldn’t unsettle my work regime, I’d go. I want to take this cross little body of mine away. I want to nurse it, tend it, and refind my courage. Would escaping help? Probably not. I fantasise about going with a bag of books and reading alone, the day stretching ahead with noone to do for but myself. A fantasy, I know. Live here, now, in the fug and find your way out.