I expected some familiarity already. I'll drive a road and feel nothing. No sense of my body writing this down for future reference. I know how to get places and the streets that take me there but they don't mean anything yet. I meet people and they are so unusually nice and you can tell they are always nice but we have no history.
It's awkward to be so aware of the beginning, the starting point. I wish I could be further along, maybe that we'd fit right in, wake up one day and it all be cool and I would not have noticed the un-easy-ness along the way. But instead it's like the anesthesia is not working and I'm awake mid-surgery. There is no pain, though, just a clarity, like I'm too-present for something I shouldn't be seeing. I know too much, the kind of knowing too much that kicks you right back around to waitaminute maybe you know absolutely nothing at all.
And I have no intentions to sound so dark- it's actually really beautiful and light here. A beautiful, unfamiliar light.
Gray spiked a fever Saturday night and I lied next to him in his bed, more new walls and ceiling I've yet to try on, nervous and panic-stricken that I don't even know where the emergency room is. I'll find it if I have to, I mean I do have GPS but gah my disdain for relying so much on GPS. That safety of visualizing where everything is and was and would be is... out of my reach and okay I'll just say it, out of my control. Which is, for me, a very uncomfortable and tortuous form of healing. And so my heart has its a-ha moment and in a flash I'm let in on the secret that I - and everything I'm looking for - we are exactly where we should be.
And then it's gone.