Everything is now scattered, thrown up in the air like so much confetti. I am the confetti- shredded and swirling at the mercy of the cosmic trickster's dust-devil. And now the gathering begins. Well, not so much gathering as gleaning. I suppose I should say something inspirational here, like how I may be down, but I'm not out, and how I will be stronger for all this, and how it will be all right in the end. But, truth be told, I don't feel any of that, and right now, I have precious little indication of a happy ending.
I feel numb, very small and overwhelmed. And I keep feeling smaller and more overwhelmed.
Non possum sperandi meliora.
(I am scared.)
The Inn of Infinite Sadness, or alternatively, Smudge and Hobbes' Traumatising Transcendental Transatlantic Trip. Being the adventures of two very large, unwillingly peripatetic, half-Bengal cats and their owner (of rather similar description) as they prepare to leave the North American continent in search of a new life in their (the cats, not the owner) ancestral homeland of Aneda. Sigh, what I won't do for a decent cup of tea.
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