Lately, when faced with the blank square of screen, I am inclined toward poetry over prose. Prose assumes a narrative, a thinking brain with at least one string attached to chain of events, a system however minor. But experience has been slippery and manic since the end of August: flashes of light and dark, dreamlike, difficult, and no string to speak of.
I think the fog is lifting, following the discontinuation of the drug my neurologist prescribed for my migraines. It is frightening to acknowledge the power a little capsule has over the state of--as Dr R would put it--"the Lucy within the Lucy," that center I assume is my very being. Every little fear spread like small-town gossip. And being rather recently engaged to a handsome foreigner I've known a relatively short time, my fears tortured and paralyzed me. And, well, tortured him too.
Today after lunch I turned to my co-worker and called a collegue "a complete asshole" with vigor. She smiled and looked at me, "I'm glad to see you're back."
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