pockets of time
we live our life in these little pockets, sets of hours when time seems to stop, or slow down long enough to let us take notice.
stolen hours, a bath, a book, a warm, late summer afternoon, the only sound is the constant whirring of grasshopper’s wings outside my window.
this was not the day i had planned, in fact, it’s quite the opposite. this was supposed to be a crazy busy catching up on work sort of day, that is what it needed to be, that is how i had expected it to be.
a migraine stopped that day in its tracks, and despite my best efforts to fight it, demanded that i give in to the horizontal.
and now it feels like i’m hiding out from the world, here on the couch, curled up in a ball with ice on my neck and nothing to do but lie here. well, actually, there’s plenty that needs doing, and my to-do list keeps popping its head around the corner just to make sure i have not forgotten that it exists.
i wave to it weakly, attempt a smile, but really, we both know there is nothing to be done. nothing that can be done until this vice lets loose its grip on my skull, this nausea passes, this fourth dimension recedes back into its proper place.
i cannot find my mind inside the pain, they have joined together to become one and the same. it’s like being held hostage by your own body.
this isn’t where i want to be, but this is where i am.
if it didn’t hurt so much, i would enjoy these imposed bits of quiet. but then again, if it didn’t hurt so much, i would never take them.
it feels like the world has stopped turning. of course, i know it hasn’t. that everywhere but here, inside my pounding head, the world goes on about its business, carries on just the way it always has, the way it always will.
but for now, i must lie here,