In transit

My restlessness, at the moment, is directly proportionate to the amount of crushed iced I chew.

The glaciers are not melting because of global warming, but because I am slowly and meticulously gnawing my way through them. I apoloigize to my grand-grand children in advance but Giagia Hope is just trying to survive.  You might be hot, but you’re alive because of me, is what I’m saying.

This restlessness has been building up all summer. Egged on by my emotional deterioration I summoned all the patience I had to wait it out. Things eventually get better. And they did. And then, just as I began to feel alive again, they didn’t.

So, I chew ice and drum my fingers on my therapists couch; my hair sticking out in a rather fashionable haphazard bun on my head. Dark circles under my eyes. I almost look like a tortured writer with no words left.

“I don’t think you’re not moving.” she is saying. I snap back to attention.

“What do you mean? Look at me. My life is stagnant. I don’t go out. I’m not working. My fridge is empty and yet my cupboards are all Stepford-like. Everything is changing but nothing has changed.”

“You have been working behind the scenes for months though. Hope, right now it is as if you are on an airplane. You never feel that you’re moving when you’re sitting on the plane. It’s only when you get to the destination and get off the plane that you realize that you’ve actually been moving all along.”

I smile.

She continues.

“You’ll see, two months from now you’ll be somewhere. You’ll have moved on from this place.”

I really hope so.

If only for the poor ice caps.