It came over me an hour ago or so. It felt like someone pulled the plug in my bathtub, and slowly, but surely, the comforting, warm water started leaking out.
Screw it. It was supposed to be a lovely metaphor about feeling safe and happy and then not. And about how images start to come apart. I see my mother in her kitchen making oatmeal with lingonberries, happy, purposeful, hopeful ... and it seems so meager, so frail, such a ... what was solid is rotten wood, crumbling... a pot is a sieve ... a smile is a smirk...
Now, wrapped in a blanket, having had earl grey with globs of honey and lemon, a British murder mystery on the Telly, mom chuckling on the couch across room, a fire cracking in the fire place, kitty back inside eating, christmas tree twinkling, reality feels more solid again. I can touch it, it's not a mist of cigarette smoke swirling, swirling in a desperate attempt to give solace.
Everytime the sadness comes I am afraid it's come to build a nest in my chest.