I have been, as you well know, turning over all the rocks, as they say, leaving no stone unturned.
It was the only way.
You'll remember that i was disrupted, that there was a sort of rupture, an earthquake of my being
you know the details
and you have felt my aftershocks, absorbed them, because you are kind.
i started to dig through the fundamental rubble, to search it, to replace it, or find it somehow permanently displaced, these
little and small, sometimes quite large, pieces that comprise me.
and i never stopped. everyday i was an archaeologist, examining my ruins, a cracked foundation from time immemorial to myself. my very little self.
i was so thorough.
allow that: for a long time, i could not rebuild. oh, I could rethink but i could not be constructive about it. And in my frustration there was a time I even threw the pieces in disgust
i did not care if I broke myself, so thoroughly fractured and frustrated
but i did not break at all.
somehow there was a freedom in the wild flinging
a resolution to the carelessness
and the rocks don't beg to be turned over and over
and i can construct