Snug as a bug in a rug

Does the world seem off to you? Spinning slower, dragging its feet? Perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps it’s the season not just in between change, but actually changing. The darker mornings, the darker nights. I feel so unsatisfied today like no matter what I do or eat or accomplish it still isn’t enough. There is a mass silence across everything except my street. The cars still flash by before dawn the same way they did in the summer. Except this time, I don’t feel excited to wake up anymore.

I tip-toe around creaky wood floors, down the stairs. We haven’t turned the heater on yet and I worry about the radiators I’ve never used before. They will work, I’m sure of that, but how will they hiss, clink, keep me up at night. I feel like pulling an all nighter tonight. Write until my fingers bleed. Is that what it means to give yourself to your art?

People are beginning to hibernate. And that’s OK. Some part of me wants to hibernate too. And then the other wants to yell at the top of my lungs that I don’t want to fall in line and wear wool socks, close off my hands with mittens, feel cold in my bones. But I suppose it’s not up to me. I may be the last one, but I’ll soon have to wrap myself up and start dragging me feet as well.

I feel like crying all of the sudden for things I can’t control. For the cloud cover, for new hurts of new people that turn out to be old hurts they can’t wrangle out of. It makes me sad that it even exists at all. It makes me sad that little old ladies wait to die after their husbands pass; that men still can’t figure out how to love their women in ways they deserve; that people are so lonely in their lives they threaten suicide to a home lender at a local bank. There’s just too much out there this week. Maybe hibernation is best. Maybe it’s time.

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2 Responses to Snug as a bug in a rug

  1. It isn’t just you and I’m quite sure it isn’t just the two of us. There is an escalation of electrical charges, such that I often don’t know whether it is excitement or anxiety that has me twitching. I think of the Sherlock Holmes phrase, “The game is afoot.” We just don’t know exactly what the game is. There are new experiences just being thrown at us, or so I feel, and our instinct knows no precedent – do we dodge, run, hold our ground, fire back?

    A final quote for today, Hunter S. Thompson, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” Weirdness has always been fodder for the writer, the artist. Perhaps this is the universe’s giant fruit basket, left at our doors. Perhaps it has been sent with love. xoxo marylinn

    • rachvb says:

      Yes, I feel it is more than just the two of us as well. A friend said it was too much Vodka from last weekend – and that may have started it, but ever since there’s been so much sadness all of the sudden, clouds to poke through, awkward conversations and a part of me that wants to disappear under the falling leaves.
      This town is full of oddities – as I’m sure many towns are. But not being from here perhaps I notice them more. I like that quote. Very fitting. thanks.
      It’s strange to feel some sort of kinetic, psychic connection to change. I’m not quite sure why I feel it, why I have been blessed to feel such things? Either way, it’s nice to know I’m not twitching alone.
      xo Rachel

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