Lack of reason

I don't know where I am going. Or how to get there. Every day feels like Christmas morning. I am so excited to fall out of bed and get my coffee and just get started with all this living and doing, and being and existing. The only thing I question regularly is the lack of direction. I have direction when it comes to the girls. Be the best bloody mom I can be. Listen to them a lot. Support them. And love them through it. The love part comes naturally. We all can make a concerted effort to be more emotionally available to the people closest to us, especially when we're busy.

I have my personal goals, I mean I carry on like a harpy about my school work. I know its dull as hell for everyone around me. Its my schtick. Its where I get that little bit of validation that although I appear to be rolling around like a tumble weed I seriously am anchored or grounded in some sense, at least in an academic sense, and I can produce fruits of my labour that mean something to some professional somewhere. It also helps clear out my head. I would rather be consumed with external input than obsessed with my own inner churnings.

I have my job which I have grown to love. I love the at times challenges, I love having a shipment arrive and not knowing what in the world I am going to find, or how greasy or oily my fingers are going to get, and sorting it all into what goes where, the paperwork to follow it, the shipping labels (although sometimes I goof up), and then making a record of it all so we can work backwards a couple months back from now to figure out what went where and why. I love the interaction and the banter I have with a couple of my vendors. I just got invited to stay with one of our machinists and his wife in Arkansas. And to drink copious amounts of whiskey. Very funny. I love taking bank statements and reconciling them down to zero. I love how perfectly it all fits. My life may be chaotic, crazy, harrowing, but there is order there too.

It just really comes to where I am personally. I love the silence in my house. I love the freedom of thinking where do I want to go today, and just going. But then I also think that life is for sharing. And who do I turn to to share it?

Yes I have my friends. My beautiful, beautiful friends, who swoop in, and rescue me from me and my necessity to stay hidden away at home, force me out into the sunshine, make me go to places and experience things I never would have else wise.

But I am waking up at midnight, at one, at two. I switch from the blackness of sleep, to the starkness of awareness in an instance. No grogginess. I am acutely aware of my silken sheets, knowing in the light that they are aqua, exactly the colour that I wanted. I have seven pillows, four that stay in the bed with me, three that I throw off to the side. I sleep towards the middle, phone on the right by my head, in hands reach. I feel for my pillows, making notes of where each of them are and turn over, to readjust. And all I want to do is put my hands on his bare shoulder, to touch him, to make sure he is still there. In anticipation I imagine his skin is warm and smooth, the sheets are cool. But he is an illusion. The illusion vanishes and each time, I am overcome with sadness.  I doubt he will ever be here.