barren dioramist

I’ve been trying to find god all this time. This becomes apparent to me this morning as I walk infinite rounds inside these four walls. Gear up, gear up, ever and anon ready to venture out– but continue circling bisecting and interweaving patterns through interior space– readying, readying for… something. As I arrange and rearrange objects, populace of a tiny planetary system, I concoct scenarios just so, balanced in vignettes. The endeavor is balletic as I stretch and step, bend and reach.

Something inside me snapped when I learned, when I embraced at last, the fact in the face of long years of inconclusive diagnosis and grueling pseudo-treatment, that I am, indeed, infertile.

Shortly thereafter: menopause. Hot flashes. Ooh la la instantaneous conflagration several times daily, nightly, sweat drenched and pit stained regardless of present company or otherwise engagement. Subjected to the aging body’s ill will in fits and fevers until one day they just stopped.

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