Shaking Through

 Feeling fragile. Thin skinned. No idea why. I'm not sure I've fully processed the societal break of the pandemic. My life is different now. I never leave the house. I communicate through my finger tips, staring into the baleful glow of the computer's screen. I never DO anything. If I go for a walk it's a big deal. If I have a bath it's a mild trauma. I need to break the seal, get out there. The only time I leave the house is to get dental surgery. 

Two root canals again tomorrow. Vast sums of money slipping through my fingers. Still, at least it's something to do. 

I'm currently listening to "A Feather on the Breath of God" by Hildegard of Bingen as it's the most calming and relaxing music I can think of. I don't ever remember being this wobbly. I feel like I'm made of glass. I feel like a loose tooth. I'm broken biscuits and scraps.

People have children. They have jobs. They have dogs. They partake. Maybe I'm just being self-indulgent. They fill their lives with reality while I sit here and make shit up. I imagine people. I imagine their lives. I imagine their motivations, their conversations. I make people up and I dress them. I dictate what they're wearing. It's nonsense. Then other people - people paying me to make these people up - tell me that I need to change their clothes and their motivations - because reasons - and I do. I re-imagine the imaginary. There are entire industries built around refining and reshaping the lives of people who have never lived. Actors inhabit them. But me, I invent them in the first place, with lengthy, detailed backstories. And every one assumes those characters are me anyway.