This overwhelming sadness Steffanie was experiencing had lingered far longer than she’d ever thought possible. Of course this was not something new to her, it had been haunting her for years, but she'd always been able to handle it. She had to. Her mind and this foreboding feeling, had melded so fortuitously during the past year it had become a way of life. Trying to differentiate who was who, which was which, and what was what, had become nearly impossible.
Sometimes she didn’t even want to tackle the task of sorting it out because feeling nothing, letting go of all her own expectations, was the easier choice. That, she thought, was still doable.
She knew she has to do something about it, but what? What the hell was she going to do now, in her fifties, her body in disrepair, her brain on fire with ideas that sprung like over wound springs? She figured if she threw enough shit at the wall something would eventually stick and she would discover who she was supposed to be as she waited for her mind to slip away, but so far that theory was just a load of crock.
The shit she flung would hit then fall to the floor shattering into little shards that were unrecoverable. They only served to represent the diminishing thought pattern that she had so become aware of. Her brain had become askew. She felt mystified. Yes this was a word she loved to throw around because of its importance, it’s literary value, and it’s ability to make bullshit smell like wine.
She no longer had the luxury of time. It was running out faster than sand slipping through her fingers. She would have to move quickly now, get her life in order, get to what she wanted to accomplish because she knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that time would move at the speed of light now that she’d heard the doctors words out loud…
Sometimes she didn’t even want to tackle the task of sorting it out because feeling nothing, letting go of all her own expectations, was the easier choice. That, she thought, was still doable.
She knew she has to do something about it, but what? What the hell was she going to do now, in her fifties, her body in disrepair, her brain on fire with ideas that sprung like over wound springs? She figured if she threw enough shit at the wall something would eventually stick and she would discover who she was supposed to be as she waited for her mind to slip away, but so far that theory was just a load of crock.
The shit she flung would hit then fall to the floor shattering into little shards that were unrecoverable. They only served to represent the diminishing thought pattern that she had so become aware of. Her brain had become askew. She felt mystified. Yes this was a word she loved to throw around because of its importance, it’s literary value, and it’s ability to make bullshit smell like wine.
She no longer had the luxury of time. It was running out faster than sand slipping through her fingers. She would have to move quickly now, get her life in order, get to what she wanted to accomplish because she knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that time would move at the speed of light now that she’d heard the doctors words out loud…
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