My metaphorical bed.

I have been staring at the screen with either nothing, or too much to say recently.

Words and thoughts are swimming in my brain without forming credible shapes or threads.

I think about fashion and I become bored, I think about the world and I become scared. It’s not easy to look at what surrounds me, what makes me and defines me - the profession I chose, the politics I trust - and witness what I am seeing.

I did my fair share of agitating in order to ameliorate things but when the swell of the tide is so repugnant there’s not so much that can be done to actually achieve solid changes. You win some, you lose some.

When I become morose I hit the hide button. I close up to the rest of the world and inhabit an emotional state that is akin to being under my bed: tented, covered, hidden in plain sight. I wait for the inner and outer storms to pass and then emerge, little, still somewhat crouching, but determined. And this is cyclical, the ins and outs of my existence.

Yesterday evening I saw a small moon, it’s a new moon, the seed planting and watching tiny leaves grow moment of the month.

So this is it really, all I can give right now, a tiny new moon to whom I am trusting my momentary re-awakening until its time to hide again, under my metaphorical bed.

Now, new moon, intentional energy, fuck the system, I shall energetically jump on it, reaching high and having fun.