Two more weeks . . .

Blog entries this month will be sporadic and, on some days, will be non-existent. Moving time approaches and finds me strangely upset when I allow myself to think about it. To 'dwell' upon it. Two more weeks until I board that plane.

Often I must consciously and forcibly wipe away the mounting apprehension I feel at simply forcing myself to begin, to continue, and to finish each small task. Such as packing another box. Such as staying awake instead of drowsing in my chair.

Things are chaotic, both physically and mentally. I can feel the tenseness in all my muscles. Can not seem to relax this body that seems to ignore what my consciousness attempts to tell it. That there is nothing to fear.

The 'tremor' that began a couple of years ago is growing more noticeable. When I look at my face in the bathroom mirror I can see that tremor as my whole head trembles. And my hands. And I can no longer consciously still or even slow the quivering.

Fear. Such a powerful and insidious emotion.

My daily walks are growing more difficult. Some days I feel that I cannot complete the two-miles as my steps drag one after another toward home. I can feel the quickening of my pulse, the rapid pounding of my heartbeat, and steady breathing becomes difficult.

I am eating way too much. As if food is my drug, my tranquilizer. Which is most certainly is.

Why do I think anyone else is 'truthfully' interested in reading such drivel?

The smartest thing I could do at this time is stop writing until after the move has been completed.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite or fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

--Horace