Sometimes, I have fugue fantasies. I randomly pick a city on Craigslist and start looking for apartments. It’s a stupid reaction and I can always tell that things have gotten overly stressful, that something is so blessedly and wholeheartedly wrong with my life that there’s a big giant alarm going off with a spinning red police light that no one else can see or hear.
I’m beyond the fugue fantasy right now. Right now, I’m thinking about unheated abanadoned summer cottages, the kinds with chipping used-to-be-white paint and warped floorboards that you can’t walk across without gathering your very own collection of foot splinters. I’m fantasizing about finding old furniture in fields and taking it back to my (what? hovel? squatter’s palace?) and knocking away the mice nests and spider eggs, turning the tables upright and listening to the sound they would make as they wobble. This is not right. I know that this is not right.
I’m sure that it is no coincidence that it all came to a head on the darkest day of the entire year. I know for a fact that things in my head have not entirely been ok since Tilly’s death, that while I’ve gotten past the loss (and have a new kitten, but she deserves her own entry) and that for some reason, I got broken and have only now been pulled together a semblance of unbrokenness. And yet, I’m having a really difficult time getting past the feeling of loneliness and soul-crushing ennui. And I’ll tell you one thing: it’s no fucking fun.
