I said this aloud as I was vacuuming my house earlier today.
For the past little while, I've been chastising myself for being too self-absorbed in wallowing to tend to the disaster that is my living space.
I can tell I'm beginning to metamorphize into myself—again, and quite frankly not even a notable depressive episode of my ouroboric phoenix sitcom life—not just when I have the executive functioning to do chores, but when I start caring enough about them that they stop feeling like chores. When I start pouring my love into cooking, cleaning...
When it's no longer housework,
but housecraft. The art of homemaking. The practice of domestic magic.
So many folks out there, right now, are teetering on the edge of their own life.
They've lost their balance and the poison seems more of an elixir, the panacea peace jellybeans.
I am not one of those people...
not right now.
But I have been, before.
And probably will be, again.
Nobody wants to admit it, but anyone with exposure to mainstream media has had at least one Sitcom Aha Moment. Doesn't matter if you love it, hate it, tolerate it; you get to know it. And if you don't, you should, because it knows you better than you know yourself.
A name is, really, the least important thing about someone. It's an identifier, a lexical social security number. It distinguishes your head and neck from all the other heads and necks. It's what another someone would shout into a sea of heads and necks, hoping to see yours pop up.