my mind is a freaky place
The mind is a freaky place.
My mind says:
“Even my children are blowing me off.”
“Nobody loves me.”
This is because I left some messages around 8:30 and now it is 9:30 and no one returned calls.
The truth is,
Everyone will be in touch with me sometime this week…..they all love me……no one is blowing me off. And even if they are, it is ok for them to do that. I don’t need immediate responses on things.
My feelings are easily hurt.
Dagny sent scott another email…that was earlier today, actually. She is sweet.
There is a certain freedom is being able to write things that no one is going to read.
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by me name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
-author unknown (to me)
My mind says:
“Even my children are blowing me off.”
“Nobody loves me.”
This is because I left some messages around 8:30 and now it is 9:30 and no one returned calls.
The truth is,
Everyone will be in touch with me sometime this week…..they all love me……no one is blowing me off. And even if they are, it is ok for them to do that. I don’t need immediate responses on things.
My feelings are easily hurt.
Dagny sent scott another email…that was earlier today, actually. She is sweet.
There is a certain freedom is being able to write things that no one is going to read.
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by me name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
-author unknown (to me)
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