It's been five days of rest, and passion. My first rest since even last year.
My blog words are creaky; I lost an entry to the innards of my phone yesterday, before that I was as dry and blanched as a stick in the desert.
Even now I'm clutching at just as blanched straws; but I know the process has to be begun somewhere, that disciplined I must be, that this trickle will begin a flow, otherwise I'll die inside from saturation and words seeping out of my blood steam and into the parts of me where words should not be, and when they are there they become poison.
Saturday afternoon I drove to Ermelo: I left at 17h00 with a beating heart - the heart of Mpumalanga is in its autumn beauty, yesterday was the equinox - and I was surprised at Steers corner by the Greyhound I did not see.
Right now, as I sit on a red leatherette couch eating one of the last of the "summer delights" promotion - a Bar-One Just Chill for only R17.95 - at the Carolina Wimpy, the Greyhound of my content is ploughing it's way back through northern Kwa-Zulu Natal; earlier it was moored for a smoke break at Piet Retief, then Vryheid, now it's rolling down through that province's rolling plains.
For me it's back home, to a home and heart again forever changed; dinner tonight at Celeste, then in bed with the cats, up at dawn tomorrow, a new heart's week pruning all that's unnecessary from my unloved life so that it can make the transition from the un-lived to fully-lived. I want so, so much more than fully-lived; I want to, simply, suck the marrow from the bone of life.