I thumb my weaknesses like fontenelle, test their softness and then shy away from it. I have always been less gentle with my own tender spots. So their outlines repel me. They remind me of the impulse to cruelty throbbing at my fingertips.
Lately I have spread myself too thin- Austerity Butter. I split and split, between places and people, trying to be helpful and cheerful and kind. When the constant motion stills, thoughts open beneath me like a trapdoor. I keep a foot either side. The paper dolls of split-me join hands again in the morning, tug the door closed, regroup, resplit and go out smiling.
I need a new blog, one with a theme. Wiped slate and a story to tell (not mine.) Something funny, collected, solid. Something to concentrate on, while I pull the focus from my thumbs and the soft spots beneath them. Something with a point.
A collection of stories (not mine.)
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