The supervolcano of Fort Collins is inside my chest this morning, working its way up to the top of my head, into my fingertips and toes, wandering through my veins and out my pores. I am thinking too hard and am unable to feel for I am reeling in distractions of logic and problem solving, my two favorite diversions. I can’t wrap my head around my emotions, nor can I wrap my emotions around my head. I am simply restless.
I want to build some metal things, to walk into my garage and turn on a blowtorch as an alchemist of decorative wares. I want to pull out a notebook and write to the future, where the notes I’ve scribbled will be found by my kin when they are cleaning out the attic some springtime years from now. I want to put paint to canvas with the whirl of a brush and have it hung on someone’s bathroom wall.
But I am instead walking to the refrigerator over and over and repeatedly checking the mail. I have a living room covered in black paintbrushes. A dog whose eyes gently look up at me from his curled up position when I make a sudden move and a cat who randomly meows as she stretches on arm out and curls the paw in, both lying lazily about on the furniture. What I am doing instead of all the things that make sense to do, is fretting about the future and twiddling my thumbs. I am looking out the window, rolling up my pant legs and repositioning myself on the long couch that faces the front door. A muffled radio playing in the other room and traffic on the main road are distracting me from my thoughts only temporarily.
I am thinking of worldly problems, wondering how weddings ever complete themselves and pondering the reasons people everywhere are afraid to feel.
Some minor musings seem huge, like why the bristles on Suz’s toothbrush get squished so quickly or how people with televisions ever get any connecting done. All I can do this fall morning is wonder about the world.
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