I miss being certain in an unconscious way, Not this certainty of dogma; this certified certainty. Nourished by its devouring of all other, more feeble certainties. I miss the absence of calculation. I miss the seventeen year old who hugged and cried and walked for miles alone, all in one breath. She's not been shed; nor sheltered. I miss being Nice. Air piano for half an hour with a metronomic cat tail shall help. That; or sleep.
2 comments:
Metronomic cat tail ^_^
And I believe calculations are now done without the process. Instinctive, if you must. Not necessarily a happy thing, but a good thing nonetheless.
Sleep always helps. It'll be better.
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