I am searching for a pulse, here. Looking for the blog's corotid and trying to detect a trace of blood pumping through. Looking for a beating heart.
Is it...is it...dead?
There is no Blog 911. No emergency response team to resuscitate a blog. No code blue. No crash cart. No glooping mystery gel onto electro-charged paddles, charging up to whatever, --CLEAR-- BZZZZZT, regular sinus rythm, everyone breathing a sigh of relief.
There's just this vague feeling that the universe is organizing in a not-so-benevolent way. Organizing to create a vacuum, a black hole, into which all of my time and energy--creative and otherwise--is being sucked.
I'm going regularly to the gym again. I am working to keep up with laundry, dinner, laundry, dinner, housework. My kids have been sick no fewer than four separate times since the beginning of December. My son is the worst kind of mobile--upwardly, that is, climbing onto every horizontal surface, without regard to height. He is like a mini-tornado, only with a breakable head and so in addition to everything else, keeping track of him has become an even fuller-time job.
It sounds like I'm making excuses. It's not intended to be that. I'm not rationalizing. I'm...I don't know what.
Grieving, a little, maybe.
Bending my head down, ear to my blog's mouth, listening hard for its breathing, while I wait and hold my own.
Sliding my hand a bit down and in and yes, there it is, I found it. A pulse. Sluggish and weak and fragile.
I think it's going to be touch and go for a while, so let's don't get our hopes up.
Let's just be Cautiously Optimistic.
Whatever the hell that is.