The Perfect Storm.

I just need to write. I can’t find paper so I use a brown paper bag I see in the car. My perfect storm. Just as 1 has been in her perfect storm, we are left with the muddy water and remnants left for pick up. My perfect storm? Well, I am just facing the waves with my mouth shut tight and my eyes fixed on the perfect wave about to crash, break and take me down. I am 34 with 10,000 ideas, but zero time. There is so much I want to do but I can’t find the break, the time, or the space. Am I driven enough? Am I confident enough? Am I smart enough? Fear has gripped me by the throat since as long as I can remember. I have a fantastic memory and I remember in detail. To see fear come like a thief in the night, to haunt, to taut and to stick his dirty fingers onto the vulnerable life of one of my kin, this is not going to happen. Though it may seem as though it is happening, this anxiety, this insanity, this ambidexterity, it will not succeed in its deliberate act of imposing itself in my family’s life. I have my cleaning bucket, my gloves, and my sleeves rolled. A muddy mess, perhaps, but perfect storm, you will not take me down.