⊂ ⊃
This is one of the flavors of my depression, feeling translucent and fragile, a melancholy scrim of gossamer floating untethered in the sharp October air. This is when I yearn for deliverance, rescue, capture by warm and gentle hands. My weepy mind slides into fantasy to protect itself from the hard edges of the world. It pulls Heroes around itself like cashmere. And it tries to sleep.
I am here, now, in this place of soft sorrow. One eye on the Hero, one eye on the rhythm of the Real. Train whistles in the distance mourn and warn traffic. The pumpkin colored oak tree across the street paints across gray canvas and readies for winter. I am both hibernating in the safe corners of my mind and stepping out to do laundry, meet a friend, have a birthday meal with my sister. I am both insulated and exposed, denying and tolerating this phase of my bifurcated moon.
But, duality is home to me, my nature, and this season will pass to the next. All I must do is wait. In the cashmere and in the banging drum. Both. Always both.
