To say that I haven’t been myself is like saying badgers are a little cranky. I don’t know who I’ve been, but it wasn’t me. Not so fond of the simulacrum tottering around wearing my face. That bitch.

I’ve gradually become numb. Muffled. I miss lying on the grass in the dark, in the rain. I miss sitting in the cold listening to snow on dry leaves. I miss walking for miles through the humidity from the river. I miss the rhythm of my feet and breath and heart and thoughts. I miss digging in the garden just to feel the sun on my head, sweat threading my back, and the strength in my body.

I miss connecting with the world. Miss feeling like the dry crisp leaves, the fluttering wishes of Fall, skimmed by dry snow, hidden like a secret. I feel time in both directions, hollowed out, dry, crisp, crumbling. Filling with whispering snow.

I kept giving away chunks of me.  I’m grafting things back on, hoping they’ll take.

This whole NaNoWriMo thing is stirring up the silt. Thus all the embarassing personal confessions that keep winding up in my daily word count. Is anyone else running into this? I’ll be surprised if I’m the only one. Come on. ‘Fess up.

Word Count Today: 0
Word Count To Date:  4127