If idioms were literal, I would be deep underground and buried within the holes that I’ve dug myself into.
I hate feeling disconnected, like I’m hanging onto each thing I love by a thread thinner than my baby hairs. The overwhelming sense of dread creeps up and whispers ugly somethings into my conscience until I physically must extract them and stare at the ruins.
We’re in a marathon, aren’t we? I hate feeling like last place, always the chaser and never the drink that is wanted.
Helpless and selfish and useless are bundled up and knotted to my chest when I read the news or talk to you or ask what’s going on.
So I’m sorry I can’t provide money or action or anything more than my name, but I hope that you are well and safe and looking toward the setting sun.
Prayers and thoughts go toward those affected by the fires, or those in Lebanon or Yemen or China, or really anyone who could use some love.