Je ne sais pas. I relish silence, sure, and solitude, and the ability to be alone in the midst of people. Surrounded as I was all weekend by my family - and I love my family very much - I was also left to my own devices, and that form of solitude is precious: to do as I want, and no demands are made of me.
Being alone on the Road gives you time to think and feel in a very real way, and I did just that all the way to Jackson, and all the way back to Monroe. I cried, I sang, I smacked my bubblegum. I thought about God, and New Orleans, and freedom. I thought about my bones, my muscles; I thought about blood and the ties that bind. I thought about my brother, whose heart is still wounded. I thought about my sister, whose spirit is a little broken. I thought about my father, who is scared. I thought about my mother, who is dreaming. I thought about the Captain and how lost I am without him. It is not the dependence of a helpless woman that makes him so indispensable to me; rather, it is the peace that he means to me that makes him necessary for my well-being.
I am tired this morning, equal parts in muscle and mind, sinew and soul. I've been reading the words of my soul-sister and wishing I had her fire. I used to have fire - I don't think I do anymore. I think I gave it over in favor of sleep and painlessness. But I miss it. I miss that sleeplessness that comes from passion and intensity. I miss that restlessness that conquers sense. I miss some of the recklessness that used to boil in my blood.
It's not that I'm lost, or dead, or even asleep. I don't think it is. I just know that something rages deep down and wants to wake up, or wants out...or just wants.
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