When one returns to life after years in a deep sleep, everything looks, sounds, feels, tastes odd. People talk for no reason other than to make noise. Nature’s elements feel indifferent, which they are, yet I want them to care. Rather the icy wind bites at my face like I’m a kid to bully in the playground. Like said kid I run away, into the safety of shelter. Restaurant food tastes careless, as if it cares less whether you live or die, cares not for your precious blood and breath. Wherever I walk anxiety hops about and shakes violently, pinching every living thing, poking sides, pulling hair, stubbing toes, flinging filth. Why?
I long to stitch pages again. My bookbinding material disappeared, as in, I no longer know where they sit in this world of mine. Perhaps one day they will reappear like a shoebox of Polaroids from the 70’s, but for now I plan to start fresh. For some reason my mind designs Choose Your Own Adventure stories over and over and all night long. I must write.
In order to bring myself back to my existential comfort, I will brave the anxious, selfish, careless world and walk to a new store to purchase cigars, wine, and tea. Perhaps some cognac. For now, glass seems wrong, so forgive my future posts in which wine, tea, cognac may all sit quietly in a tea cup or mug I find in the basement.
Thank you for sitting near me while I return to life and writing, oh God of Things As They Ought to Be,