Like old forgotten shoes in the back of the cupboard
Waiting to found.
To be dusted off and polished,
Once more to be in fashion, soles upon the ground.
The comfort of the ages gliding around the floor.
The feel of the familiar,
My bare feet regaling, alive once more.
0 comments Labels: Poetry
Fais-moi signe.
Un clin d’œil
Ou deux.
Trois même,
Si ça te fait plaisir.
Pour ma part une moitié
Sera suffit.
Je ne suis pas gourmande,
Juste en manque.
Give me a sign.
The blink of an eye
Or two.
Three even,
If that’s what works for you.
For me just half is enough.
I’m not greedy,
Just in need
Of a fix.
3 comments Labels: Poetry
Will fried
0 comments Labels: Poetry
0 comments Labels: Poetry
I
1 comments Labels: Poetry
This is not my time.
You take me to the heights wrapped in radiance,
Yet engulfed by blindness
I drop into the cradle of my sadness.
Awoken I writhe to see my senses,
Stare at their numbness and await the winging of my soul.
For that will be my time.
Indonesia 2000.
0 comments Labels: Poetry
Reality speaks though slurred
Leaving brain stains on the floor.
Jigsaw splatterings form the words
You've kept locked up in that treasured box,
Carried since eternity.
Come take the rusted key from this proffered palm
And let lightness free.
Manchester 2009
0 comments Labels: Poetry
Your gentleness still shines through.
I know there can be no more,
And I won’t ask it of you.
Just tenderly accompany me on my journey,
In compete ease,
Side by side as before.
Follow my steps from afar
As I shall yours.
Manchester 2009
0 comments Labels: Poetry
Here comes the Merry Round-and-Round,
Up and down,
All through town,
Distracting us from wake time.
He smelled her need,
She took no heed,
Her senses open to his seed.
Sat her on a pretty horse,
Led her on a happy course,
Upon the Merry Round-and-Round.
Until she fell upon the ground,
Arms outstretched
In a heap, feeling cheap.
Then came the sound
Once more abound
Upon the Merry Round-and-Round.
Paris 1997
0 comments Labels: Poetry
0 comments Labels: Poetry
Apparently we utter 15,000 words on average per day. I wonder what my mean is? During a typical day I have one five minute conversation with my mum, and that's it for oral communication. How many words is that? A couple of hundred? Does that 15,000 include all the conversations I have in my head? Or is it the spoken part of the act that is important? I also wonder if this is why I’ve taken to writing since becoming ill. Is it an innate urge from my brain to get something out in some form or another? Of course writing is very different to conversing as it’s very one-sided, there isn’t the bouncing around of ideas, new thoughts and ideas sparked unless it’s IM or bantering on Facebook. In a way, I suppose writing is very similar to those conversations we have in our minds, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, we must all do it, those imaginary colloquies with other people and of course always getting our desired outcome, the practice run before saying something close to our heart to make sure we get out exactly what we want to say, reliving almost forgotten memories or playing out our hopes and desires. Surely I’m not the only one? Or maybe I am and I've just divulged something really embarrassing. Well it wouldn't be the first time and it certainly isn't the most humiliating.
Therefore is my writing the product of all the conversations I’m no longer having? I think it might well be as I am a bit of a language bunny, always have been, my greatest pleasure as a child was reading, entering wonderful imagined worlds for days and days on end. Of course there is the little matter of my illness and chatting can be very draining for me, I need a lot of quiet to be able to get through the day and the conversations in my head are calm ones and expend very little energy. So, what will this do to me in the long run, the fact that I’m not running linguistically as I should? Do we ever forget how to converse, how to interact? Will I only be able to effectively communicate through the written word? Only time will tell and well, if that is the case, hopefully when I finally get well or at least get some proper medical help I might, just might, be able to make it as a writer.
3 comments Labels: CFS, Language
0 comments Labels: Poetry
Life in the slow lane was an odd place for me to be found ever, I was energetically ignited, had some major fire in my belly and a mind full of adventurous wanderings. One day I woke up, was shoved quite rudely into a corner, pinned down and shackled to the wall by M.E. I was given a very finite and closed space within which to move, if I try to venture past I’m quite sharply reminded by my constraints, they inflict pain and severe unrelenting exhaustion. As I’m sure you can imagine it took a little while for me to become accustomed to my new situation, I cried, I screamed, I pleaded, I begged, I tried sweet talking, giving up and imagining my freedom yet nothing worked. Eventually one day I accepted where I was even if I didn’t understand why, it didn’t make my symptoms any better but calmness prevailed and life in the slow lane began for the first time in my life.
I’ve learnt to love this gentle pace, even enjoying the juxtaposition of my place within society, watching my peers have families, get MA’s, PHD’s, their careers burgeoning, deeply ingrained in modern life juggling so many perilously balanced balls. I could quite easily fold into myself and become desperate by my lack of “life.” I’m so grateful that I rarely feel that way, I always enjoy seeing my friends’ happiness, it in turn makes me smile, and I'll take as many smiles as I can get. I travel in your timeframe through your stories. The time in which I traverse now goes at a slow beat in comparison, gentle but still rhythmic. All that I do is accompanied by a rhythm, always has been, but now I meander to a different tempo. It’s a gently lilting cadence and my steps are taken on the offbeat.
0 comments Labels: CFS
It's been many years since I wrote in French but this morning I had an urge and here's what came forth. Thankfully my dear friend Flo helped iron out some errors. I've translated it below.
"Cours mon petit cours,” elle a crié.
“Le vent t’emmènera, en volant tout deviendra clair,
La hauteur te séparera de toi même.
Comme ça plus rien ne pourra te nuire.
N’aie pas peur d’être en morceau,
La légèreté te remettras en entier.
Reste entortillé dans les nuages,
Si douces ses paroles, n’est-ce pas?
Ta terre nourricière attendra infiniment
Le jour où tu lui rendra sa bonté
En s'effrondrant doucement dans ses bras.“
“Run my darling run,” she cried.
"The wind will carry you, all will come clear in flight,
The height will separate you from yourself.
Then no more shall you be hurt.
Don’t fret of being in pieces,
The lightness will make you whole, once more.
Stay enveloped in the clouds,
Such sweet nothings, no?
Your earth mother will forever wait
The day you return her kindness
By collapsing gently into her arms.”
3 comments Labels: Poetry
Growth comes in fits and starts and there are a ton of clichés but what I want to consider is why some people are able to grow and mature as a person and some aren’t. I don’t think it’s linked to intelligence but linked more closely to those with a greater capacity for compassion and understanding. You see it from a young age in children, there are those who are capable of great empathy whilst others have no concept. Is it something that is taught or nurtured? I suppose it’s something that could be but there can be stark differences between siblings. We all know of brothers and sisters who are miles apart in the way they view the world. Some people grow with each hardship they face and the empathy they already possess flourishes. Do these people spend a lot of time analysing their behaviour and are therefore more cognisant? Or is it just a natural progression that comes with age and experience for some? I’m no psychologist so I don’t have the answers and unfortunately no longer the intellectual capacity nor mental energy to research it.
On the flip side are those who stagnate and some even seem to become more embedded, less-abled to see another person’s suffering, all they see is their own problems. No one suffers as much as they do, they seem to find it impossible to really take the time to listen and acknowledge what is in front of them. I see this as a lack of honesty perhaps, and it may stem from having difficulty in being honest with themselves. Or maybe it’s their way of getting through life’s hardships, if they deny the surrounding reality they can cocoon themselves from going through what is painful work. Taking that step back from ourselves and looking in from the outside, taking time and stock to look truthfully at our own behaviour and why we react as we do towards others is not only rough going but also frightening, however I believe to grow in any meaningful way it is necessary.
Where do I fit in? I’m certainly somewhere in between and have been at points in my life completely unaware of my behaviour and its affect on others. Looking back I feel ashamed. I do try now to always take that step back and take a long hard look at myself. I know I don’t always win through yet it will be something I strive for until my last breath.
The slow click clack echoes around the half-empty room that has seen its fair share of nothingness. A room which is filled to the edges with unfulfilled dreams and aspirations, adorning the bare walls with the graffiti of one’s mind. The long, elegant fingers, the leanest part of the body, stretch and linger on the keys whilst the brain and extremities try to reconnect. There is a time delay, like the wobble of a bike after a few years of absence but it feels the same, the breeze through the hair, the flush of the face, the refound pleasure of the long forgotten. But just as after not having ridden for a while there’s no stamina and it’s quickly apparent that one cannot go on for long, especially one who is tainted by ill health. One would think it’s been years rather than weeks that I haven’t managed to write but I suppose it amounts to the same thing. My small, sore red eyes are drooping, my fingers and brain slowing so for now I will call time but hope that this is the gentle beginning to a return to words.
0 comments Labels: Poetry
This piece is an exception to the rule, it was written a while ago but I feel it's worth putting in my blog to help understanding of the reality of my physical symptoms.
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is hardcore. I can't speak for those who have it mildly or those more severely affected, I can only describe how it has impinged on my life. I have quite literally been floored. Before becoming ill, I worked at least fifty hours per week, had a new job, which I loved, shopped, cleaned, cooked, went out; I was busy and enjoyed it. Probably, just like most of you. Take a second, reflect on your normal week, now remove 90% of your physical and mental activity. That is all CFS allows me to do, and often doing just 10% can be very challenging. Most of my day is spent on the sofa, the rest is structured and managed.
I don't do "ill" and never have. When I have had time off it's usually been for serious problems. I am tough but this, well this has stopped me in my tracks. If I don't listen to the warning signs from my body I get even sicker, to the point of 0% activity, when even getting to the toilet is a struggle. Sometimes I hit 0% even after taking care.
As soon as I was diagnosed I researched what I needed to do to try to get well and immediately put all management techniques (sleep hygiene & pacing being most helpful) into practice. I got professional help and use these aids everyday, they haven't cured me but they help. I have tried a number of treatments, none have worked. Unfortunately, there are thousands of claims of a CFS "cure" on the Internet. It is so easy to prey on us as a group as we are ill, vulnerable and want more than anything to get well again. The reality is the "cures" are very expensive and very few have gone through large enough medical trials to confirm their claims, if any at all. CFS remains a mystery clinically, the medical world so far has been unable to pinpoint the exact cause. There is a glimmer of hope as research carried out at St George's University of London seems to have identified seven distinct types (MS has 3 types), but it could be years until the research is completed. http://lib.bioinfo.pl/pmid:18057078 Therefore, all the so called "cures" are pure conjecture, and as CFS is different from person to person it is conceivable that some people have got well whilst undergoing certain ones. However, there is no way of knowing if they would have got well anyhow.
In January 2006 I contracted an acute, atypical pneumonia then subsequently went onto develop CFS. Since I first became ill I have not had one day of wellness. For some people CFS comes and goes and they have periods when they return to normal health. I unfortunately don't. Some people go into full remission. I remain hopeful that I will too, but am also realistic. Many people never recover, and from what I understand there is evidence that those who like me also suffer pain with CFS are less likely to return to full health, if at all. Some become progressively worse. Not to be forgotten is a group of sufferers possibly 25%, who are so severely affected they are bedridden, many cannot feed themselves, or do anything other than lie in a darkened room with no distractions.
There is a myriad of symptoms, which vary from person to person. Mine include the following: severe debilitating fatigue, headaches, pain (prickling, shooting, sharp, burning, joint, cramps), dizziness, nausea, muscle weakness, difficulty walking, disturbed sleep, cognitive difficulties (can be very severe), visual disturbances, sensitivity to loud noise, loss of appetite, intermittent tremors. This is not the full list but they are the main ones. Most of these are known as silent symptoms, as they cannot be seen only felt. You will notice from this list that CFS is far removed from plain fatigue or overdoing things, it is not the same.
By writing this my aim is to raise awareness for a poorly understood illness as the government is doing very little to spread the word, and the CFS charities in the UK have hardly any presence in the wider public. One day, we will finally have the recognition we deserve and with recognition will come real help from the medical community. When this day comes, we will no longer be viewed as "hysterical" or "hypochondriacs" as we still are by some in society, including many doctors.
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome is also known as ME (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis) and Post Viral Fatigue Syndrome.
3 comments Labels: CFS
Courage is such a grandiose word. It conjures up images of great bravery and heroic exploits, tales that have been passed from generation to generation, written down, played out on the stage or on our screens, to ignite and instill in us a will to take part in great acts. We’ve all been brought up with this from fairy tales to cartoons, the hero or less commonly the heroine winning through. So courage appears as a big gesture, the rescuing of a child from a burning building, fighting an “enemy” or protecting the fair weak maid. Courage is valiant.
Courage is a grandiose word and it should be, it’s a grandiose emotion. You have to fight your fears to be courageous, courage kicks and screams inside you and weighs heavily in the pit of your stomach. However, it doesn’t always come dressed up as a once in a lifetime feat. It comes to us all often and to some everyday, wrapped up in small packages regularly delivered which take a lot of heart to open. The addict who wakes up and says “No” that day. The mother who goes through childbirth. The disabled who insist on living independently and those brave enough to admit they need help. The minority who stand up for their rights and beliefs. The child that is bullied who walks back into school. Those who make sacrifices for someone else’s well being. Those prepared to show weakness. It tumbles out of us as a shaky voice or a heavy tread. Courage is the quiet internal struggle.
Do come forth imagined tales,
Take me far away,
Into midnight ramblings,
And lands in which to stray.
Riding ‘breast a manatee tail,
Beside the souped up sea,
Dive into the mushroomed scape,
And dine on urchin tea.
Scoop me up oh ladle wave,
Throw me to the sky,
To skim along helixed shores,
Until one wonders why.
0 comments Labels: Poetry
Language learning is a messy business, lots of fun but makes you very prone to falling quite royally on your face, usually sprawled before a fine and rather large audience. Especially in the beginning when you’re trying your hardest to get your tongue and brain around the new sounds, wanting to recreate that which you’ve just heard or read, of course those first tries are usually dreadful, so far removed from the original that either you’re not understood, or the person or persons at whom you’re directing them burst into fits of laughter. This could be because your pronunciation is really shocking, you’ve said a completely different word due to your mispronunciation or you've got your fledgling vocabulary mixed up. One such story that has stuck in my mind was whilst teaching in Java, a teacher got the words celana and jendela mixed up. Celana means trousers and jendela means window. So there he was in front of his class, mainly teenagers and a fair few of them girls, and he decides to speak in Indonesian, not really sure why as he was teaching English and usually in our line of work we don’t use the native language in class, anyhow he asks in his most polite Indonesian whether he could open his trousers. I can see now the looks on his students’ faces, and the laughter that would have echoed throughout. Possibly a great example of how to get your students not to care if they make mistakes and just have a go.
My own even more embarrassing story was when I had first arrived and I mean had just got off the plane in Java and arrived at my shared house. The first person that I met was our maid, she was tiny with the most beautiful features and sixteen years old. As a teacher over there you make enough by local standards to afford a live-in housekeeper. Desperate to make a good impression and horribly uncomfortable with the idea of having a maid, I wanted to be as kind as possible to her and show her respect. I had no knowledge of Indonesian at all when I arrived, so there I was meeting this adorable girl, a lot more humane than some of the teachers I was about to encounter and I asked her name in English at which she replied Apa. Gosh I thought that’s an easy name to remember. That weekend I tried my best to communicate with young Apa when she wasn’t tied up with her work which some of my housemates unashamedly abused, I spent time with her and the dictionary. It was going along swimmingly, throwing about Apa this and Apa that, the only odd thing was every time I said her name she repeated it back to me but I just thought I must be pronouncing it incorrectly so I would conscientiously repeat it back to her, sometimes this exchange could go on for a while.
I decided to do a little sight seeing but the guide book didn’t offer up much in the way of places, however the zoo certainly popped up and a friend of mine back in the UK had suggested I go. I managed to get across to Apa where I wanted to go and got her to understand that I’d like her to go with me. We got into a rust eaten, sweltering, rank Zebra taxi, and off we went to Surabaya Zoo. The first thing that hit was that it was heaving and everyone stopped to stare and I mean everyone. What is important to tell here is that in Surabaya foreigners are a rare breed, and are a source of much entertainment. Forget the animals Apa and I were the main attraction. We did our best to move through the gawping crowds but smiling or saying hello in response to all the calls of “Hello mister!” was pretty exhausting. Finally we stopped in front of the monkey cage, the poor beasts, well all the poor animals, the zoo itself was one of the most distressing places I’ve ever been, most of the animals showed extreme signs of stress but that is another story for a different day. There we were in front of the monkey cage, me with my nose in the dictionary trying to piece together a sentence or two to speak to Apa, when some of the intrigued masses were brave enough to come over and speak to us. They asked us our names, of course they asked Apa in Indonesian and she replied Liz, I did a double take as I thought maybe I’d misunderstood their question. The group we were talking to spoke a little English so I said that her name was Apa, where they duly all started laughing but kindly informed me that her name was Liz and that apa means ‘What” in Indonesian. At that point the embarrassment rushed straight to my already red and sweaty face and flowed through every part of my body. No wonder we were having these ridiculous exchanges of me shouting “Apa” and Liz replying “apa” and me saying “Apa” and her retorting, well you get the picture. What on earth she thought I hate to think but of course she was nothing but lovely to me.
4 comments Labels: Language, Travel
Riding High
Upon a self-righteous horse
Until one notices the fall
So long ago taken
0 comments Labels: Poetry
An old friend, if that is the right description, of whom I was very fond, who made me feel safe many years ago when I probably needed looking after but didn’t think I did due to youthful naivety, recently came back into my life via Facebook. So an old friend, in the most literal of descriptions is probably the best, asked me where I was currently living, he knows Manchester, used to live here but didn’t know Levenshulme, it wasn’t the area we used to hang out in at all and well those of you who know it will know it’s not the kind of place you go for a visit if you’re from out of town. Not because there is anything wrong with it, there just isn’t a lot to see. During our correspondence he asked if it had been gentrified, such a wonderful question I thought and of course open to a piss take. I want to make something clear before I go on I love where I live, am happy and comfortable but I do tell things as I find them, gets me into all kinds of trouble but some traits are hard to control.
Levenshulme is a big pick and mix of a place, the kind you find when you go and visit your Nan, they're not quite the sweets you’d have chosen but there are some great ones in there with the odd minger. I’m not one for history so I won’t tell you the past movements of the place, why people came and when, though I am sure it is interesting but I will tell you of the people who are here now. We have a mix of students, teachers and other professionals priced out of better areas, immigrants from all over, Irish Catholics and general fuck ups. There are so many characters around that my daily walk is never dull, I also find people here really friendly. Almost everyday my eyes meet those within my community, we don’t know each other, have never spoken yet we exchange smiles which range from the very shy and gentle to broad, toothless grins, the young to the old, and every race gladly joins in this much forgotten simple expression of humanity. We are a madly mixed up smorgasbord, a lovely representation of Britain today. The only group that doesn’t smile at you is the students, too young perhaps, too up their own arses at this stage of their lives to reach out, not sure but that’s just the way it is.
As far as I’m concerned the people are the best thing about the area. The facilities are rather ramshackle, there is litter everywhere, it's slightly unruly never quite doing what it's told, there is a rather unsettling trend to put plastic flowers and plants in gardens and a lot of poverty. I mean we can’t even afford an Oxfam, but then I’m not sure if that says more about Oxfam than it does about Levenshulme. We do have a great charity shop though, that I support wholeheartedly, get all my books from there. Levenshulme is not the ideal place to go out drinking either, my ex partner and I did once or twice when we first moved in but you can smell the sulphur just ready to light up, not a good mix with all those spirits being bandied about. When I could still go out and drink, I preferred a quieter place with good music rather than dodging all that flying glass. That said it depends what takes your fancy, doesn’t it? If you like a place with edge, not fully formed, a non-conformist as I do, as I am possibly, then this may be the place for you.
7 comments Labels: Travel
I recently had one of my dearest friends to stay, which was just wonderful. He’s been a rock for me, or should I say a fully fitted scaffold. He’s there through all of the horrid, weird and funny times. He was my best maiden and is married to another dear friend. Sadly for me they are not in the UK but happily distance has never tempered this friendship and I doubt it ever will. We Yahoo conference often with the third party of this wonderful crew, a fine example of a lady whom I also adore in another part of this gorgeous world of ours. I thank profoundly the bright sparks for inventing the internet and keeping us all so connected.
We were discussing how the illness affects me and the difference between our capabilities. He said it was a good example to help people understand. It was possibly 11 o’clock in the morning and he had so far, breakfasted, showered, done some research on the computer, been to the supermarket and chatted to me. I was still sitting in my pyjamas, which speaks volumes and what he had just done in two hours or so I hope to achieve on a very good day, not in two hours but in nine, spread throughout the day, between periods of rest. That would be minus any serious research on the computer, any kind of detailed reading is completely out of reach to me, some gentle surfing and skimming is the best I can hope for. And on bad days (which last for weeks at a time) well that would be me just curled up on the sofa or in bed all day, moving only for essentials. So as my dear friend suggested there it is. Do with it what you will but I hope that it will help you, as it helped him.
1 comments Labels: CFS
Moonbeams skating across lightly lit, rippling ponds.
Hands reached out to catch just a trace,
Only one.
Hours I spent stretched on my knees, eyes fixed,
But dark they remained whilst silver flitted
Inches away.
Not one second did I falter or fall,
Until the orange dawn spread throughout
And I stood tall.
0 comments Labels: Poetry
Why pander to the unseen masses
Only for them to scratch away
Slowly eroding whatever vestige remains
Of peppered explorations
Which began at the first broken dawn
0 comments Labels: Poetry
I don’t intend my blog to be filled with all things related to CFS, it is a huge part of my life but it isn’t my whole life as it is part of me but isn’t all of me. Obviously as I am affected in so many areas of function it is hard for it not to be a regular subject. I’ve just returned from a few days with my wonderful parents, I stupidly decided to take the bus as I hoped I was well enough, it’s only a few miles away and when I am “well” enough to take the bus now and again it makes such a difference to my life. It’s related to independence, ego and dignity. Such a small thing comes to mean so much with this illness. Well I took the bus and then unfortunately spent most of my time feeling truly awful, and a lot of it lying down. I have left there feeling better in other ways though.
Before going to my parents I’d started to go a bit off the wall shall we say, psychologically, a taboo area us CFSers don’t like to mention, or only within safe circles. The illness is still viewed by far too many as a psychosomatic disorder so talking about the secondary mental effects of the illness is often not openly discussed. In fact I may well get a flurry of objections to this post. I want to make sure that it is clear I am talking about how the illness affects me, not everyone with my illness. I find myself alone often, which I really don’t mind at all, I am quite happy with my own company, but the illness is in its very nature isolating for those of us who are more severely affected and unable to socialise either via work or going out. In fact networking sites like Facebook and Twitter are a life saver for me when housebound, it means I get to have some social interaction as often as I am able to within the limitations of my symptoms. So a couple of weeks alone, with your own thoughts, day in day out, fighting difficult physical symptoms can play with your mind as I am sure you can imagine. This is a reaction to the situation I have been forced into by the illness not the cause of the symptoms. I find myself landlocked.
However, being around my parents for a few days eased my mind, even though I did have to spend a fair amount of time resting, alone. Having that human connection brought me out of my own head. In the previous two posts I’ve written about my recent thought processes or should I say lack of, they have considerably calmed and here I find myself much more easily being able to relate my thinking. If any of you were in doubt of the forces fought with this illness then I would say to you it is a multi-thronged attack and until there is understanding of its cause I will have to fight off each one constantly, living in hope I will one day win the battle.
1 comments Labels: CFS
Deary me I'm still pretty devoid of ideas for writing. Perhaps this is a good sign as my writing usually takes place as an emotional reaction to something. I think this is the reason that I write better poetry than anything else however, that is possibly shifting now. So does this mean I am currently calm and without stresses, I wish it were the case. My head is still quite unfocused with thoughts switching quickly. I've tried to write a number of poems this last week or so but the train of thought isn't there. I will keep trying though and wait patiently for clarity of thought. I just have to remain confident in my ability to fill these pages, I don't want it all to unravel so unspectacularly soon. This is my experiment, really the first thing I've focused on that isn't about recovery, it may help but it's not the intention. This is my creative space, my studio of scribbles, sketches and paintings to shape and reshape.
So hard to write anything currently, my thoughts are smattering shards, intertwined yet clashing and racing in and out of each other. Trying to grasp one and ride it through is impossible, they are intangible and flighty, they jump from one place to the next. I need them to bide their time, linger and be weighted in space so I can hold on to them, turn them over, play with them, help them grow and nurture them. These are shallow, not inconsequential as no thought ever is, but they are mischievous and have no patience for anything serious. I wonder where all the thoughts go, where are they filed, in which part of the brain until ready to reappear, sometimes the wrong thought pops out at the wrong time and the one you want for that moment refuses to come. It will come later, when it’s no longer needed and the perfect moment will have passed. How much longer this present state of mind will last I wonder, I find it quite tiring but it is out of my control. Perhaps the mind needs this playfulness for a while, to rest or subconsciously store the thoughts of consequence that will come hopefully at the appropriate time.
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