
This morning I felt so lifeless I went to stand in the rain to prove to myself I wasn't still sleeping. Standing in a puddle, in my nightie, I let the drops fall hard and fast across my bare skin and watched the goose-pimples stand to attention. It felt so good a chill ran down my back. Warm rain. For the first time in so long, months, I felt like I was alive. Like I was wholly in the present moment. Like nothing else mattered but this feeling of stimulation. Pondering my life for a minute I threw myself back to the last time a pleasurable feeling totally washed over my whole body. Too long ago.
Today I also managed to finish a novel, the first full book I have read since before I met D. Quite an accomplishment. But it left me reeling! The ending had been left open for the reader to decide, and I had read and read incessantly to get my happy ending. So imagine it - I keep telling myself, but I so wanted to read it as part of my achievement. Why am I so bothered by this? When I had finished I began to think about bizarre things like the fact I haven't worn socks or shoes for days, and that the purple pointy flowers on the Budlia in the garden looked like an array of arrows pointing in all directions, like a scene from Alice in Wonderland. Have I awoken my imagination?
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