When I woke up this morning it was snowing. I ground up coffee on autopilot and walked through the apartment like a ghost. I had been through the wringer. I don't know what to call those moments when everything I am feels treasonous and fraudulent. I don't know how to negotiate the ache or feed the need I feel. There is a crying child inside of me that I don't know how to help. I throw out options: Milk? Juice? Tea? Want me to read you a story? But she is inconsolable. And I hate her for that. I hate that I cannot placate her with the tricks up my sleeve.

So it seems I am standing at the mouth of a bridge over murky water, and that I need to walk suspended over the ick and swirl of everything that makes me afraid.

I watched 8 Mile on video this afternoon (I also saw it in the theatre) and I found that I loved the pain and anger of the protagonist the way you love what you know by default, and realized again how the warm blanket of rage suffocates.