What do you want to be: a prisoner of the past or pioneer of the future? Happy or vindicated? Will you ways want to open the box, I ask myself this morning, waking early to the smell of of something scorched.
I wondered for a minister if I was back on the burn unit, coffee in one hand, new book in another. I furrowed my brow, still half asleep. But my heart starts to race, I can't quite catch my breathe.
A memory conversation of the painter in the lobby, telling me about his mother in law, who had burned her feet in the bath. The boiler had been serviced and it had been turned up too high. The water was so scalding, she couldn't get her feet out for putting them in the water, falling backwards, breaking her hip, her cocyx but bent at the knees...her feet stayed put.
Sometimes I walked past her room in the week before she died and would hear her keening. I wondered why they didn't put her in a medical coma, as they had with my mom. Walking into my mother's room was a relief of beeps, whirs and white noise in comparison. I remind myself I am not there, breathe deeply, slowly. Open my eyes, register the new bedroom layout. Lay back on the pillows. Return to sleep. Wake up later to sigh and pull myself into today.
The doctor prescribed propanol a few weeks ago. I've taken three of the tables. I don't like them, although I can tell when they work. I wonder what it is about going to sleep that makes me anxious. I usually love that time, the drifting off, the unconscious taking a spin. Recently, though...
I'm en route into Town. I've been heading to Town all day. When I say 'Town,' I mean into London. The Paula Rega retrospective at the Tate Britain. All I can do is move forward, slowly but steadily, even though it's overgrown again and feels like terra incognita all around. Sometimes, I wish I weren't the pilgrim.
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