I think I'm still beating, pulsing, moving, breathing.
Just a few sharp reminders that I am very much alive.

What's life without memories, and what are memories that do not move us, and what is moving that is not passionate, and what is passionate that is not painful?

Perhaps.

It's a Tuesday evening. I have committed to far more hours than Wednesday has to offer, and so I'm attempting to bleed some of those hours out of when I should be sleeping.

It's one of those nights where I'm sick to my stomach, uneasy and weak about tomorrow as much as tonight. It's everything. Head rushes blood, and stomach drops, and my arms tingle, and heart is shoved up against the wall.

I want to curl up with a strong arm, connected to a warm body. And live in celebration.
Where has the celebration gone? It's been poured out of me, bleeding for others. There is little life to pour out in celebration. It has all gone to interceding, and warring for you and for him and for all of those.

This is where I plead for restoration, for Holy water and deep magic to woo me. This is where I collapse at the foot of the well and drink and drink and find it hard to pull myself away.

There is much desert to be travelled, much more drash to find my cowdh. Much more seeking to find my sanctuary.