I didn't get that out of the magic challenge jar. The busyness levels have reached critical and I have the world's most sore shoulder. World's. Most. Sore. Hard to sleep, to type, to not sit around all day complaining about soreness. My own fault - I keep forgetting to take my nasty medication because its nasty and a painful flare was inevitable. Though pain doesn't quite capture it, it's more like embedded doom. Deep, unrelenting, hellish. Things have hurt worse, but not often felt worse. Stupid lady, stupid shoulder.
All week I have been apologising to you in my head for last week. Such boring, so many nothings. I could have at least painted my face with chocolate, or a random stranger's face. Used it as body paint and ridden Godiva like through the town centre, except I don't really have a town and it doesn't really have a centre. Nevertheless. Buy chocolates and eat them - genius.
That chilli one really was amazing though.
So this week, a day late, and no less uninteresting, photos of my home. Which is not a styled and stylish home, I live transiently, everything I own feels temporary and in waiting for something real. I don't know why I live like that. It's distressing, and yet...
But I do see corners of joy and life and colour, little montage of what is permanently me, permanently mine. Like a posy on the coffee table from the remnants of last Summer's flowers.
Kitchen benches in the most god-awful green, but still colour. Still tea. The tea wears a hat to keep heat and flavour in for the three minutes its brewing OF COURSE.
Creepy doll, forgotten, hidden, not well loved but vaguely amusing. I kept her out of duty when my mother died, and I wish I hadn't, but feel uncomfortable getting rid of her now. She does brings up angry feelings if I am in her company too long, of how much I held in and how hard it was, and how a part of me wishes I just let myself blow up in decades worth of pain and anger and rent the veil of conformity all the way to hell. Repressed rage is what creepy doll mostly means to me, and I don't love her for it.
The bedrooms of my offspring, one filer, two pilers. I'm a piler. I'm also not very tolerant of people piling. I hate it when people pile.
Though I do pile rather beautifully.
Or at least colourfully.
If not entirely, not all the time. All those words on those pages. I love my thesis, my weirdly creative arts/psychology mash-up thesis, but all those words. I want to use words of my own. I'm weary of having to repeat words of others, who repeat words of others, who repeat Foucault.
The broken, the boring, the colourful, the fantastical, the neglected, the dusty. This is my life. I'm not ashamed of it.