complaint

The dogs are soundly sleeping, Ron is teaching a class and I am here thinking, always thinking--about life. About all the things I want: want to do, want to feel, want to create, touch, taste, and how hard it is to get there, to get to those damn rounded high holy things that seem to forever abate me.

There is so much to do and so little time and energy to do it. The worst part is the lack of energy, the desire to always sleep creeping through me. In order to do things I need a maid, a nanny, I need to get better. Too bad getting better takes years. But progress is being made, slowly, surely, and all the other descriptive words you can put next to progress.

I want to do so many things, things that I don't know how to do anymore. Its like my brain swells with everything that is going on that I forget how to do the simple things. Paint my nails, clean the house, finish my quilt, meditate and be quiet--for God's sake find some quiet. I am sick even in my dreams now, instead of the fantastic and the usual dreamland comforts, I have dreams about trying to make soup, sleeping, talking to people about the troubles I'm having. I can't get into a deep restful sleep anymore. I feel haunted these days.

Enough complaining. Now to get up and do something.