My body has apparently decided that breathing is optional. I disagree.
I really don’t feel like I can bitch about allergies, because I know the pollen count here isn’t as high as in the south and east, but still, they seem worse this year–and a month too early.
A combination of not being able to breathe and worry over my dad’s oldest brother who was in a serious car accident yesterday kept me from sleeping much last night, so this morning, I didn’t feel up to spending the day with Sis and her family. Instead, I sat around the house trying to breathe.
Anyway, lately, I’ve noticed that I’ve started narrating my life. I can’t really think of a better way to describe it. For instance, this morning, while I was walking the dogs, I noticed a bird hopping from branch to branch inside a bush. Instead of just watching it, I thought:
“She noticed a little bird, a sparrow, flitting around in a bush that hadn’t had enough spring growth to hide its movements. She was only a few feet away, but was very careful to stand still. She wondered if the bird knew she was there. The bush, she supposed, sparse as it was, would give the bird ample warning and protection if something untoward were to happen.”
I’m not really sure what to do with this new development. I guess it’s good practice for actual writing, I mean, if I even have a character ponder a little bird in a bush, I’ve got the scene down, right?
Writing would be so much easier if my life had an over-arching plot. Maybe it does, and I just can’t see it. Characters rarely do.
It’s been a bad day. I’ve felt like crap both physically and emotionally. Nothing I’ve tried seems to help the allergies. I feel helpless and hopeless.
I’m going to bed now. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better.