It inspired me to write.
To take the jumble out of my head and on to paper (and then into cyber space).
So that I can feel the sunshine on my face, with a clearer head.
It's now 7 pm and the moon is up, no sunshine for me, but a clearer head (albeit, sorer eyes) is my reward for nearly 5 hours straight of writing.
I'm writing from the house I am sitting. In between watching
It's nice here. Clean - animal hair and dust doesn't clog my thoughts, theres no chores that have to be done - Molly takes a fraction of the hour and a half of the feeding time my babies require, and there's no anxiety. Well, a lot less anyway.
I do long for the day that I actually live somewhere, where I have a home again. At the moment I maintain 2 houses, but don't live in either. I'm essentially living out of a suitcase and inevitably what I need is always at the other house. I can't be completely comfortable here. family and neighbours drop by to collect mail, garden etc so I feel the need to always leave the house as I found it. Before I leave I always put everything away. I haven't barely used the kitchen because I don't want to make a mess. I feel like I'm 20 and need to be checked up on, not a 33 year old who has lived out of home since she was 21.
It's me though, over analyzing, assuming. it's not that anyone has particularly done anything to make me feel uncomfortable.
I am truly grateful for this opportunity. In a perfect world, without this commitment, I'd be with my babies, who love me unconditionally, and I'd have the time to pack and get the house ready for sale without guilt of not fulfilling my commitments, I'd be moving on ASAP. But in reality, I think I need this time to be alone, to not have my stomach sink every time I hear a car approach, to not see Steve everyday.
To really move on.