The Hours of the Days

Some days lately things made sense, but mostly they did not. The treacherous intense dreams of the night interwove themselves with the reality of day, keeping her locked in a state of standing on the edge of sudden panic each moment to the next. Nothing felt stable. Of course there were the occasional remedies to this ddissociative numbness every now and then. A book, for instance. This was a perfect way of escaping the strange, confusing presence from time to time- when she could really let herself go. But the mind was always racing, and yet almost wasn’t at all- never fully focused on one thing, one solid idea or thought- how exhausting it was. Daytime always felt wasted, no matter what the circumstance; never enough was being done. She was wasting her time. Being aware of this didn’t seem to fix the problem. The root was deep. Always the worrying. And what of that coat that must be mended? What of the dog and the matter of his leg- well what of the laundry always the laundry and also the dishes always those too the bills must be paid, the tomatoes are dying on the vine outside, they are the last- cold winter setting in and the worrying over the missing out and wasting of these last precious days before frozen winter- well it just seemed nothing made sense very much anymore.