Beltane Emergence Moon
A combination of back pain, percocet and melancholy has dulled the mind. It’s like thick gray wool packed in at the temples, crowding thought, squeezing it into channels too narrow. Concepts and ideas get clogged, adhere to each other, don’t come apart, so writing is more like picking cotton than fly fishing in a cold running stream. And, my fingers tremble a bit, unable to collect the bolls of thought, at least ones that might go together.
Hell might be such a state permanently in place, where the ideas and the concepts, the feelings are there, somewhere, but so difficult to access, to string together. It erodes the sense of self, makes character a matter of chance acquisition rather than moral choice.
This morning the gray wool packing has diminished, though the mixed metaphors here may not show it. The back’s better, though still stiff and painful. I can’t imagine Kate’s life where a certain amount of this pain never leaves her. The pain distracts me, at times it’s all I have energy for; yet, I know it will pass. For her, it is resident.