Sometimes I feel like a tiny pin prick of an island on the huge map of the world. Who knows anything about one pin prick sized dot. Maybe it’s only a bit of fluff dropped from someone’s clothes? Maybe it’s just a bit of sauce from the french fries served at lunch? Maybe it’s a squished bug? Or maybe it’s a whole island unto itself.
There is so much to do with the moving. Still. Always. Eternally so. But, in this moving there are really only two days left to get it all done. Sickening, frustrating, maddening and far too crazy for me.
I got mad at the garage door opener when I came home last night after work. It fell apart and when I couldn’t get it to work I rolled down my car window and pitched it out into a handy snow bank. They’ll find it in the Spring.
I’d say I’ll be glad when this is done. But it won’t be done. I’ve moved too many times to want to tackle the unpacking. It seems pointless to unpack only to pack again. I drift along, rootless and at times pot bound. Too much family with opinions about all I do wrong and how I should be doing everything in a different way. Where am I in all of this? I reach out to grab at some trailing part of myself and there are just boxes, waiting to be packed, or unpacked. I can’t see inside.