These weeks after the fall find me anchorless; ghosting through days, slipping in and out of worlds between pages, as I search for comfort away from this dull ache of knitting bone. Sleep is fitful, and often I find myself gliding through a soft breathing house at dawn to submerge in deep, hot water swirled with scented bubbles; where I lie waiting for pain to ease, accompanied by a deep throated dove cooing in the morning.
To temper this aimless existence, I make new routines, setting small goals on this exhausting journey back to fitness. I forge deals with myself - scrubbing and cleaning in awkward wronghandness before curling on cushions, book in hand and cat on lap.This strangely rigid interruption in my normally fluid existence, is a way to fill the hours and keep torpor at bay.A way to ignore this dull ache that accompanies my every movement,until the sweet relief of a heated wheat bag and a few moments of calm.
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