A scabbing over of my mind causing me to stretch against the tautness of boredom, of same-ness.
I have the urge to do. But what?
To write? To travel?
To walk and walk and walk…
I love spending time alone, it’s not that I want company 24/7. It’s that I feel stuck, and sucked into tedium, to easy distraction, to cheap entertainment. And I feel poorer for it.
I am no longer needed for full time mothering. My son is peeling away. Still here, loved and loving and needing me, sometimes, but not in that all-consuming way his two and ten year old selves did.
My husband is away half the year. And when home, he loves me in ways that make it easy for me to distract myself from this itch.
And I can’t leach onto my friends to avoid boredom. I love spending time with them but always come home to myself.
My days are swallowed by work and the internet, besides my daily emersion in cold salt water – a ritual that saves me from fading away completely.
And it’s a good thing, because itching needs to be scratched and if I feel the itch it means I am alive, my spirit it still here, restless, irritable with my torpor. But I need to respond before I become numb to doing nothing.
For we are what we repeatedly do, and I am determined to be more than this.