My hair is as curly and out of control as my mood is.  I am fighting to bring my heart around.  But really I would like to cross my arms, stomp my feet and frown fiercely.

I want to be a writer and work from home.  I want to do everything from home.  I'm over people.  I picture myself in a snuggie at my computer with a mug of tea.  Yes.  I bet my life would be perfect with no people.  And a snuggie.

My mom laughs it off.  Tasha, stop moping.  Go out and do something.  Get out of bed.

I'm not moping, I'm stewing.  There's a difference.


And then I sigh.  I hate that I'm upset.  I should not be all twisted up inside.  Not over this small, small thing.  I know that it is time to go back.  Time to scrape the clean and safe and small off of my body.

Some days it is necessary to flip through old pictures.  It is right to read the stories of the forgotten people.

I remember when I came back after living in a place that smelled like death.  I came home to a holiday that overflowed our house with food.  I remember being upset a lot after that. That seems like a lifetime ago.

And each time I remember this.  I got down and I begged Him to be good, to be who He said He was.  I begged Him to be real.  I told Him.  God you are love.  God you are good.  God you are with me.  You are.  You are.

Today I lost reality for a bit.  I lost my heart to man.

I would like to stretch my arms and hold on tightly to both ends of life.  I would like my life to be as much about dying as it is about birth.

And I don't want to stew.