9-8

I lie in bed and I think of what the doctor said.

Mindfulness.

I had shuddered at the word when she asked me if I knew its meaning.

I do. I thought I did. I knew the twisted convoluted connotation Dorian Gray gave it, with his condescending granola smile while he spoke pretty earth words and yet lived his life tense and judgmental and sharp with blood full of smoke.

The pretty earth words lost their flavor for me over time.

I lie in bed and I want to reclaim the earth he took from me, the freedom of thought he suppressed, my fearlessness, so I pull it through my brain like taffy.

Mindfulness.

I shut out thoughts of Dorian Gray, of Wickham, of the lovely villain in my life's novel, and I push my mind down into my limbs.

The fan beside me, humming gently, a murmuring sound I have become lightly addicted to, steeps into me. I feel the weight of the blankets, the warmth of the dog, my one ever-loyal, curled under my arm breathing moistly into my palm.

I rise out of my body like mist and droplets of dew, like the aurora of the bright moon that had guided me on my night path only moments ago. She reflects, thick and lopsided, in the water that runs through my territory. I release my mind from my body and listen to her.

There is food in my stomach for once, not harsh acidic liquor, and my fingers and knees are still. I push my mind into my body and my surroundings and he vanishes because he is inconsequential.

There is strength and determination in my body. There is love and caring and devotion in my life. I sense it around me; it washes over me and makes me glow.

There are lessons in everything. There are choices and chances. I want to trace the paths in my mind and remind myself of what good things have come, but I tell myself tomorrow, tomorrow, and feel instead.

I detach. I am free. Diana, moon, night creature, survivor, sister, mother.

I burn silver with opportunity and love.