We are sick. Sick in our minds. That doesn't mean we don't feel. It doesn't mean we don't love. It doesn't mean we can't live. It doesn't mean it's bad thing.
Right now I wish I was an artist. I want to be the frail little fairy with chestnut eyes and a voice like the wind that dances from tree to tree, painting the leaves in yellows, oranges and reds and twirling with them as they fall gently to the ground. I want a dark grey sky, a powerful storm, I want to see the branches tremble and bend and break. I want to smell of soil and dry grass and live off nuts and flowers and sweet morning dew. I love the fall.
I feel so tired. Even the voice inside my head is dry and raspy, stern and boring. I want to read beside a fire, or curled up on a branch in a tree, read and learn about people and nature and how things work. I want to sleep for twelve hours and wake up in the middle of the night and count the stars. I want to paint with my fingers. I want to write things that will make people think. I want so many things, but there's something holding me down. Perhaps it's those pounds and pounds of fat. Maybe if I lose them I'll fly up into the sky and not have to care about any mundane things anymore.
Unfortunately, life isn't a fairytale. And even if it was, my failure to lose any weight at all would keep from doing all those wonderful things. I don't dare to look at the scale, it must be terrible, terrible.
Looking back, this post turned out better than I thought. However, words will be words: there is so much more I wish I could say with images and sounds and smells and feelings.
I am lucky to have been blessed with the support of seven beautiful followers, and the inspiration from many, many wonderful ladies, including Anise, Isabella, Falling Starlight, MJ, Ana's Girl, Cloud, Kemper and others that, even if I haven't mentionned them, touched and inspired me to greater things. Thank you, I adore you.
