I wander from the computer to the kitchen, from the television to the bedroom, fluttering between them, but I never manage to settle into one place or one activity.
I open Word to do some writing, and the blank screen mocks me, taunting me like a French stereotype.
I contemplate making the stir-fry I’d promised Fuzzy a few days ago, and go so far as to take the meat out to defrost, but the kitchen is a mess, and I can’t summon the engery or motivation to do anything about it.
My hair feels dirty, and my skin feels too tight around my temples, and at the tips of my fingers and toes.
I want a bubblebath, but I don’t want to commit to the necessary time required for a good soak. I want to read, but nothing interests me.
I’m not hungry, but I’m craving…something. Something I can’t name. I’m not sure if it’s a flavor, a texture, a scent, a sound, an image, or a combination of some or all.
I feel blank, like clean paper, but with none of the associated possibilities.
I feel fractured, like a reflection from a broken mirror.
I want. I need.
I don’t know.