The Incomprehensible and Overstated Necessity for a Nacent Cognitive Framework

It’s strange that in my life I only ever want to start fresh when things are utter shit, but that’s not entirely true. Not right now.

I want to write… in a different direction. I want to scrub clean the slate. Hell, if I could change my name and move to faraway lands, I would.

For a being whose whole existence has been transient, I am shackled. By love. By property. By contracts. By need.

See, I was a single gal in the big-city with big-city problems and big-city dreams. Then I gave up my big-city aspirations and went rural. Literally.

I now live on a farm. With a husband. And a need to nest.

But I’ve lost my big-city energy and fell into some inertial aether where nothing feels real. I’m supposed to always feel on the move, anticipating change and flux. I’m always expecting the bottom to fall out or the ground to shake, but nothing.

I am stationary.

And it is weird.

I try to have projects. So many. I’ve picked up various new hobbies I can’t keep interest in.

I stopped drinking. Mostly because my husband scolds me (the husband being the main anchor in my new stationary life). Also, because alcohol is bad in terms of baby making.

Apparently that is my life.

When I was big-city lady, my semi long distance beau would drive an hour and a half, after not having seen me for weeks — all kinds of wanting — and even though I may not have been in the mood — erascible as my doctor would say — I took it for the team. For love. For equity. It was never assault. And I would castigate anyone who promoted that conjecture. It was my sacrifice. My hill.

Now that baby making is a thing and there are calendars and windows and fluids involved, I get the ill timed “but I’m tired”, “not in the mood”, “full”, “bloated”, “constipated”, “dirty”, et cetera.

Those things. It feels unfair, all my “those things” and I still acquiesced.

Now the I married the man I realized his definition of “trying my hardest” differs from mine.

And fucking money. I’m so tired of talking about goddamned fucking money, like it is the only thing saving our marriage and if would crumble if we had none.

But then there are the crowning moments of heartwarming — like him helping me to the toilet because I fucked up my back again.

Marriage is great.

Oh yeah, I fucked up my back. Hence, me making tangents in my brain and needing something new.