I circle my forefinger over my thumbnail and absent-mindedly dig the nail into the finger as some sort of response. There’s a continuous ongoing conversation between bodyparts and I don’t know who’s in control.
The wind is cold and unfriendly today. I feel its hostility as it antagonistically flicks my hair into my face, into my eyes. I don’t like it. I feel I am fighting to stay put.
My throat stings a little from a bonfire perhaps faraway, perhaps no longer burning. It hangs in the air. I’m nauseous and irritated.
The seagull on the roof thinks it’s funny. He’s laughing at me. The sparrows bicker in the hedge.
The voice in my head is reminding me about the grocery delivery still to come, the fridge to clear out, the washing to hang out, the list of gardening jobs to be done. My heart pumps a little too fast and my stomach reacts to the rush. I breathe out heavily to blow away the stress bearing down on me because of my own demands on myself, and my confusion about what is most important.
When do I walk the dog? Do I have time for/ do I bother with lunch?
I’ve done nothing again and yet I’m never doing nothing. I sit and stare at the empty page where I was supposed to write a list. And yet it’s not empty: it’s patterned and creased and dirtied by gardener’s hands.
I wish everything would stop and stay stopped long enough so I can find peace. Deep down I know I am quietly out of control and I bite my tongue hard.
Maybe I look still.
Still would be nice.