Ache

__In your house, I long to be.

Room by room, patiently.

I wait for you there, like a stone.

I wait for you there, alone.__ *

I don't understand how people avoid this. This ridiculous rolling in old memories, the same way a dog rolls in shit. Not enough sweet to counteract all the bitter, but I do it anyway. Again and again and again. I've had so much, and lost it, let it slip away if not forcefully fucking pushed it. No, I didn't know better, but what difference does that make? That doesn't effect the giant void, the absences, the never-relenting feeling of stark loss.

I'm not getting over these things. I'm not moving on. My life continues, and I go along, but I'm fucking nailed to the chronological spot, when it comes to us. You. Them. All of us, together, stumbling around, 20/20 vision but no ability to actually see what the fuck we're doing, or what paths we're choosing. Fumbling for each other and the solace we could provide, then fumbling away from the new problems. I'm trying so so so fucking desperately to stop fumbling. There are maps, ill-defined and with a large margin of error, but maps nonetheless. I'm trying so hard to use these things, drawn out with words by those who have been here, or somewhere close enough, before. I'm so very tired of learning from my own mistakes, and losing everything that doing so entails. I want to learn from other's mistakes for once, avoid the pitfalls that are as clearly marked as anything in life.

__And I am still not getting what I want,

I want to touch the back of your right arm.

I wish you could remind me who I was,

because everyday I'm a little further off.__**

While I'm carefully, oh so carefully inching around narrow ledges, I'm clutching my son, another human being who deserves consideration, no matter what light doing so will cast on everything I am and want. I'm not a brave, fearless mother. Being fearful is an integral part of being a mother, for me, taming the fear and using it to my advantage is the best I can. So I'm carrying two fates on my shoulders, in my heart. With a major effect on a third guaranteed, more than three likely. Less than three? Improbable. Impossible. Not at this point. Fucked. My brain pushing me, reminding me how much fun fumbling was, compared to planning and squinting and trying to actually navigating. How fun it would be to toss the maps and sextants overboard, and go full fucking steam in the direction some part of me wants to go.

*Audioslave - Like A Stone *Amanda Palmer - Astronaut.