I was thinking about recovery, about how you go from one screwed up way of thinking to a better way.  I mean most of the things I do to make myself feel better I would rather not do.  Really, who wants to spend hours obsessing or drinking way to much or eating two boxes of ice cream and while watching Sex in the City in a perfect world all that would be ok but this is not Perfect land.  We are not sitting on clouds of nanobots who fashion for us our dreams.

I stooped to pick up a paperclip and I noticed something taped to the underside of my desk.  It was an old receipt I held it for a while actually till my fingers trembled.  I was trying to remember doing it. I could only imagine why.  This is what happens usually when lateness corresponds to the immaculate dreamscape of obsession.  I loose track of my destiny.  

If I could accept the pain, the inevitable pain that saccharine sweetness entails but I cannot.  I do not want it.  The broken promise of motherhood.  The desperate cry of abandoned infant.  That is the tremble.  Fingers white.  I stiffen when touched I like the acceptance of loneliness.  I am walking dreaming caressing with my eyes the light figure before me and only then do I remember my flight.  The transience of my hope.  The caricature of deception. That is my own inner voice.

Let it go.  Forget the silence and the terrible screeching roar of fear and obsession with my feelings.