I have been busy.
Which, for me, is good. Busy means I can't take up residence in my head and meander into places that should, by rights, be boarded up and sealed off. That place plays a soundtrack of such grief and fear and desolation that it should drive me away by the melody that floats out of it's windows. Bon Iver singing the saddest songs I have ever heard.
It doesn't, though. I still stand in that driveway, looking past the overgrown bushes. Smiling at the sunflowers that seem to spring up, unbidden, unplanned, unwanted.
I walk the perimeters of that place, careful to never fully cross over into it's boundaries. I want to visit, but I don't want to go in.
So, I walk around and around. The sweat trickles down into the small of my back. I ponder what I feel as I scrabble through my tenderness to find the words to describe it all.
All I find is quiet. There is not nothing, but not turmoil. It is smooth and settled, no wind on the watery well of my soul.
I look. I peek. I stare. I slap a mosquito on my leg. Filled with my blood, it explodes into a smear on my skin. I pick some of the flowers for my room, then turn away from that house and walk home. Content with what I have.