disembodied from spirit, passion, love
con(n)stricted to the convex of soul
ectogenesis...life outside of life
I stole this post from my old blog.
And I am not sure what else to say about it.
Except to say that my play on words has lately been my playbook on life.
I haven't been blogging.
I haven't been journaling as much as I need to journal to keep my soul connected to my body.
I have squirreled myself away in hiding a bit.
I decided to take an October break from my project of disciplines.
This morning I have no idea where my book of liturgical prayers is tucked away.
My therapy this month has been good books: I re-read The Great Gatsby and for the first time treated myself to Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451, and Catch-22.
I just feel a bit disjointed, is all, as perhaps you can tell by my disjointed, flowless (is that even a word?) collection of words.
Tomorrow is November 1. A new month. A new discipline?
I am not sure. I am not sure what it would be.
Perhaps I should swallow my snarky disdain for clichés and make my project a month of gratitude. Perhaps gratitude could be my reset button. I shake my head even as I type.
It's not that I am not grateful.
But sometimes I just want to wallow a bit.
And I don't want to be grateful in November when everyone else is spouting gratefulness. (Go ahead and roll your eyes at me. I am rolling my eyes at me, too.) But I want to be grateful in March or something, when I am convinced that spring is never, ever going to appear.
But gratefulness would be good for me.