W is for wallow

Dolores has turned me into a hippopotamus.

I have spent the last week or so wallowing and floundering. A verbal tongue twister.

Wallowing in the bath, in thought and probably the most loathsome of all - self pity. A birthday always sharpens the focus on past and present, more so with each passing year.

As my birthday approached I couldn't help but feel reflective. Dolores' birthday commiserations were only 5 weeks previously. The urge to write was countered by the knowledge that the words trickling from my fingers would be nauseating melancholy. The fact reaffirmed by revisiting my scribblings of last week.

Is this a test? One-two, one-two, can anybody hear me?

So how does the hippopotamus haul herself from the mire of negativity? By looking out not in. All too easy when the quick sand begins to suck at your ankles to struggle hard against it. Be still. Concentrate on what you can do, what you have never done.

A list is what's needed. My eternal comfort. A list of things I would like to do before another year is done.

Dance the Tango.

Take a photograph.

Be at peace with Dolores.

Katy

(What do you Want?)