Is my time to go come? Why do I have this chilling feeling. As if the realization that I do not belong here is complete now. That my time here is up and every single day spent in this place is taking me farther away from where I am supposed to be.
Last night I slept thinking of the 'cusp' of life. Thinking of how deeply I recognize it, and as an afterthought - how I wish sometimes I would let some things go unobserved.
Holed up in my room all day, it is an effort to go out, to face the world (no, not out of any shame, but of sheer boredom and denial). All peace, all of me, all of who I am is here, right here in me. And when I do think of going out, surprisingly the world outside as I imagine is not this. As if I already believed I had left.
I am writing voraciously these days, sometimes on paper, sometimes in my head. Mostly it's the head. I'm writing as I make my tea; I'm writing in the shower as I undress, and writing still when I pat me dry. Hurrying to return to my desk and type. But all this 'writing' is sporadic, of course. Scattered everywhere. There is no method, no deadline, no course it takes - words coming together in bits and pieces - in agreement with what I want to say; making me feel so safe.