The more time I spent in the woods alone, the more I feel myself changing to it. I went storm walking alone with the dog Sunday, and it was hard to return, even as the freezing mist closed down into the hollow and the light started to fall. You start to see the picture of yourself more clearly out like that, or maybe it's everything else that sharpens, and you become soft, fuzzed, abstract in a way that matters less to yourself. You take yourself a little less seriously. You don't see yourself as beautiful or desirable anymore, but at the same time, it would be foolish to characterize what pushes you forward as anything other than cold, perfect wanting.
This first part of this week has been dominated with a migraine, and I can finally feel it exiting, almost like a weather pattern. It feels like tropical remnants, some Atlantic storm that traps low pressure and squalls in my head, and nothing works like it should: not my mouth, not my head, not my body. I'm always reaching for and finding the wrong thing. I didn't know that I would be upset that the shiny new medicine I got from my shiny new doctor to fix these would not work. I didn't know I would feel like such a lost cause, or so classically insane.
It's March - I want big, bland grocery store strawberries and lovely, black-green trees. I don't want to be touched. I'm still bringing things back online, walking through the rooms and turning on the lights.
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