What ails me? Anon. And.
I diagnose: at 40 I fretted; at the bend into 48 I’m nigh unrecognizable. Grown fat and slow with middle age. Chris shot a video at some odd momentÂ of me washing dishes. I came across it on my phone and thought, Who is that woman?Â
If onlyÂ to write as of yore,Â sansÂ excruciating restraint and parsing. I’d like to say, and know, just what I mean. Like that.
There is of course nostalgia, o, folly. The sheer volume of things and people I miss weights me, clots mental teeth. Perhaps most poignantlyÂ those which do not deserve the missing. I crave what’sÂ past with tenaciousÂ melancholy. No roses while lived but rougedÂ by distance.
JustÂ so, this time, one day, will feel different, stripped of pain and retouched with the tinge ofÂ retrospect. I thrust myself forward inÂ a concise act of imagination to that distant moment to feel it differently, and almost can for a moment. Just aÂ glimpse of forecast hindsight.
It relieves uncomfortable stretchesÂ of the insistentÂ present, in whichÂ it’s hard to sit still, hard to stand. Aches abloom in joints that worked fine previously. Oil can, squeaksÂ the imagination.
That woman at the sink, remember her? A balloon she may be, yetÂ not altogether untethered. Tugging in the wind.