Blynn is happy for a moment of peace. She starts doing the laundry again–not that she let it linger in the hamper too long–but she is more conscientious about the process and happily hangs the clothes and bedsheets on the line as happily as can be expected.

But through the flowing bedsheets she can see the barn that no longer belongs to her, that belongs to her…what do we call her? Her…stepdaughter. Nope, that doesn’t sound right. But legally it is and legally the barn belongs to her stepdaughter.

There is so much to do. Feed the cat, brush my teeth, shower, head to work, talk to people, listen to people.
Is it Friday Already?

It isn’t enough to feel good. It’s more to know how you got there. It wasn’t by accident. You are responsible. You are citing yourself as the source of happiness.
It makes you happy to think that.

My group loves me and I love them.We  have fun. I want to help them but there is a chance I won’t be helpful.

And they love me so much. So I want to help them. After all, I am part of this group, so I’d be helping myself too.

It isn’t that it isn’t a fun day anymore. It is more. But there’s just more to think about. Where will the kids sleep. Who will empty the litter box for Kitty?
Who will pick up the bread?
Fridays used to be devoid questions. Just answers: Yes and no and maybe and okay and alright and all that.
Friday used to feel so sure. Now it feels like you have to work a bit to get there.
But it’s still better than the other days. The other days are questions without answers.

Whatever that is, let’s do it. It looks better than doing this.
This feels odd. That feels normal.
Those over there look strange.

Those are the worst men. You know exactly what they want, but you can’t understand them. They tell you straight up. You nod. You attempt to obey. But get it wrong, every single time. You spit and sputter, without listening.
But he is listening, very intently, making sense of your gibberish.
And after you are done, with spit dribbling from one corner of your mouth, he answers you.
The answers is No.
But still, you don’t understand what that means.

I know what I want, but I don’t know what they want. I like what I want. I even like what they want. But I don’t know what it is they want.

I have clues. They tell me things. But I’m not listening. Ah, that’s it. I can’t listen. Words are strung together like pearls of wisdom and yet I only get every other pearl, or maybe not even every other but some and they make no sense, no jewelry,  with the string.

If only I had a string.

If I want to be quiet. But often I want to express myself. I feel being aloof is being quiet, much quieter than I am used to. It feels strange. Which is why I am admire other people who do it. Why can’t I fucking figure this shit out?
.

.

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How’s that?

Breathing, the world over:

Breathing until you take your last breath.

CPR. Breathing for others.

Breathing for yourself. For enlightenment. Because you’re panicked and someone has told you take a few deep breaths.

Taking breaths, stealing breaths, giving breaths.

Shallow breaths, I hear, are used by pregnant women, who are in labor. Labored breathing.
It was easy breathing, they say.

A breath of fresh air is my favorite breath.