Thursday, December 1, 2011
There is a time immediately following a disaster when all you can do is talk about it. Repeat the same story over and over again. And then three months later, when you are still trying to cope, finding the words that you used ad nauseum seem to fail you. Because you are tired. And depleted. And talking about it just seems so useless. And you just want to lay down and beg for a different life. Then when you are thinking there is no light at the end of the tunnel, bulldozers are in your ravine and dump trucks are dumping, excavator jaws are screaming and diesel fuel is the fragrance of hope. But you are still exhausted and stressed because life doesn't stop when all your personal shit has hit the fan. It's like a death. People are around when it first happens. It's the afterwards when they are needed most. You find you are just dragging yourself through another day. If it weren't for The Minion I think I might have gone out back and drowned myself in the body of water that caused all this. The meaning of Irene is "peaceful" in Greek. Fuck that. Mother Nature is a bitch.