“Your life isn’t a work of art - it’s a thirdhand Victorian whatnot shelf, complete with someone else’s collection of seashells and hand-carved elephants.” — Kurt Vonnegut
[Marx Marvelous is my hero of idleness]
I still daydream of bolting in the night, running off to Vermont and settling down in the woods, with a wood stove and a couple of goats. I still daydream of a perfect life that doesn’t seem to exist. I’m still searching for my soulmate, or waiting for his return…
“Children are the anchors that hold a mother to life.” - Sophocles
I’m feeling every ebb and swell these days, reflected in my teary eyes and growing belly. I know I cry too often, too easily, too emotional, too sensitive, too much. I know this won’t last, I know more than you think. I just want the comfort of those years, the comfort I abandoned and left for dead. I want my craftiness back, I want my hair back, I want to feel loved again. Funny how those simple yet monumental things can somehow slip through your fingers when you’re not looking, paying attention to something else.
But then she kicks, the anchor tugs, and I’m called back to myself. It’s nice to always know where I belong now.
there is someone new in my heart, someone permanently fixed there for the years to come… and that new little someone comes before all my regrets, comes before my grief and my fear and my wistful inability to maintain a punkrock hairdo. she comes first, and no amount of anger or abandon or mischievous recklessness can come between us. it’s a new feeling, this constant companion. i’ve grown used to being alone (or… it’s growing on me). and despite this new heartbeat woven in with mine, i don’t think i’ve ever felt so lonely.
and i can’t tell if that’s a bad thing.