hope is only one four letter word that comes to mind
25 September 2004
7:59 p.m.
This beautiful evening has discovered me distressed. A migraine pulls and pushes at my skull; nausea grows ripe in my throat and stomach.
Too much red wine, too many sulfites. I was aware when I drank it that I would suffer later. It seems that small pleasures bring the hardest lessons just as the most innocent caresses confuse the heart.
The wind tonight calls me to it, and I want so much to go--to walk in the starlight around the pond moments from my door, but if I were to go, my migraine would become an uncontrolled villian intent on killing me. Thusly, I have been made captive by my own body. It is almost refreshing that it should be my body instead of my heart.
My heart lately has been dormant to an extent--packed away from the world as a whole. It is as tired as my body, but unlike my body, it can turn in on itself and become as invisible as an octopus on coral.
Congruent to its dormancy, however, I have felt tiny shreds of movement from that metaphoric organ--my heart turns outward only enough for me to remember and want.
Why is it that we should yearn for that very thing that has made us wary?