What do people say when they aren’t asking questions? What do they think about? I dreamt all the way through a story I don’t recall. It was one of those nights that I woke and tried too hard to remember my night. The ones that scare me. The ones that I wake confused I’m alive then relieved I’m not dead. I breath in deep. It hurts. Then again to the next one. It is too hard. The breath is squeezing through a tunnel that just hours ago was big enough for air to move through peacefully. Now it’s too small? Each breath feels like the last. Because I can’t seem to get it to my lungs. Maybe something is wrong with my lungs? There feels like a knot stuck in my throat. Is that why I can’t breath? Am I actually choking? On what? I was sleeping? Apparently soundly enough I don’t remember if I’m dead or alive. The kind of sleep that’s supposed to rest you. Leave you feeling rested. I was tired enough to fall for it. I breath again. And again. And again. Ok, not dead. Not choking. Awake. And alive. Again. I’m lucky.
This world has gone bat shit crazy and I have left it for my own little world. Literally crazy. Everyone is consumed with the virus. They have it and they aren’t even sick. I have not watched the news for over a week. I can’t. It’s the same news. Isn’t there other news to be newsed? Are there still people shooting each other and murders to be solved? Are they worse because the attention is off so many who do these things? What about a good tornado? Or other catastrophic event? What about a birth? Or a wedding in royalty? What are the kardashians up to? Plane crash? No one is flying right now? Probably not. No one is anywhere right now. Do people even still wonder about the kardashians?
My dad is dying. I feel like I’ve lost hope yet I’m not sure I’ve ever understood hope. He hasn’t been himself for some time. And now he is in the hospital getting worse and not even from this bat virus. I’m sure he isn’t. I can’t even type that with certainty. I am also sure he is. Because he will. We all have to. Maybe he is tired of the fight to be alive. His body says it can’t do it. He won’t stop talking and it makes his oxygen drop. So his mind seems to say keep going. He is apparently aspirating and that’s why he has pneumonia. They also have said he has had other things and that’s what he had. They don’t know. So he needs to be quieter or he isn’t going to get air to his lungs. We can’t visit him. I think Hope is just not hopeful. I can say it. This is my hope. I’ve done this. I look at plants and think. Here is my hope? I take a breath and it fills my lungs and I think. Here is hope. Will I be able to again? Am I hoping to? It happens. Should I let myself feel hopeful they continue? What if they don’t? Then did I lose hope or never have it? What if I go to sleep and he dies while I’m sleeping? What if I rest and am hopeful he won’t but then he does? I didn’t lose hope. I rested. If I can quiet my mind enough to fill my lungs. I can relate dad.
I always cry when people sing Happy Birthday to me. It’s just such a weird day. I am happy I was born. I suppose. I’m not unhappy. I know how difficult the birth was so my mom should really get the cake not me. I did nothing but try not to be born. Too afraid? I once had a job where on our birthday we had to bring doughnuts for everyone. It was the weirdest tradition. I never did it. I actually kept it quiet I even had a birthday to avoid anyone breaking out into song. I will never understand required days of celebration. Any of them. I have created some of the silliest lies over the years about magical mystical creatures who break and enter to steel teeth, leave gifts, lay eggs all over and eat our cookies. I am exhausted with the Not truth. I would love it if they were true and maybe they are. But not even my kids bought it. As soon as my kids can ask questions they went straight for the truth of these people who entered our home.
I hope, see here is hope, someday I can write and it be just a nice fluid story. I keep thinking if I write enough it will get it all out. I will untangle what’s tangled and the space will be filled with what? Just my brain? I know I don’t have a tumor. Actually I don’t really know know that but I don’t have a good reason to believe I do. Like a headache, or blurred vision. I’m not even sure I know how I would know if I did. I have always thought maybe I have a little extra brain. More than some. That’s why I was so difficult to be birthed. My head was too big. But for now my stories are so broken up they make sense just to me. I miss my dad, it’s the day I was born, I’m lucky to be alive and need to quiet my mind so my own lungs can breath.
Aspenleaf 