I've been wandering around in my mind a lot lately, little one. Thinking about you, and life, and moving on, and going back and I think about things I've read, snippets of stories, fragments of other people's lives (because, as an archivist, one spends a great deal of time up to one's elbows in other people's lives), lines from poems half remembered and all mashed up togehter. . .
'Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite "The boy stood on
the burning deck.'
I've fallen ill again. Or am ill still, depending, I suppose, on what has caused this next spectacular infection. Surely, says one Dr, you can't have been feeling poorly for long. Surely, says another, you can't be as large as you claim you were in just January. Photographic evidence is just boggling when presented, and my temper is wrought, it takes nothing for an explosion. I've spend 3 nights and 3 days in hospital, like a cruise. A short cruise, maybe to Cozumel. The last month has been a blur of broken sleep, nightmares, frantic days at work, exhausted seconds, minutes, hours at home - the world moving in slow motion whilst the heat of summer presses into my skin, into my head.
Losing you has only reinforced something I've known for a while: The art of losing one's mind isn't all that hard to master.
Strangely, I think I miss you now more than I did. . . I miss your smell, your little hands, your little eye lashes, and your little rosebud mouth. I miss everything about you and the further I move away from that point in time when I held you, the harder some days it is to breathe. The more I want to throw my head back and howl with rage and joy. Sometimes line seems to blur between where I am, where I've been, where you were lost and I can't remember which moment I am in. . . little things screw up my sense of timing: waking up in an emergency room in pain after dozing off.