These days, I’m feeling devoid of words. As if there aren’t enough of them, regardless of me having things I would like to say or not. I’m hoarding my words, saving them for the sponsor letters and press releases and emails that demands to be written and sent – preferably yesterday. In the evenings, I burn incense and bury my face in silky soft kitten fur. The cat doesn’t seem to mind, he curls up on his special blanket by my lower back in bed and purrs so loudly that it wakes my husband up.
For the amount of time I spend at home, a large portion of it is spent in the kitchen. Because I love food and eating and to some extent cooking the damn stuff as well. Most of it is pretty healthy – some of it even tastes incredible. Most of it is decent and I’m okay with that.
I take an obscene amount of selfies, they encompass about fifteen different people who are all me – and none. It’s like massaging your own neck.
My brain is stirring again, returning to life like Théoden did when Saruman was cast out of his mind like a drunk from a rowdy Irish bar on St Paddy’s. My words are returning to me, but slowly – oh ever so slowly. Until then, I’ll create things with my hands and body instead, using my voice to exhale someone else’s words.