The days number less than a week now, until she’s here and we’re reunited. Over the course of our relationship one thing I have realised is that the distance doesn’t always get to me, but when it does it hits hard.
I find the days right after departure stressful and it is here the animal I call anxiety rumbles in its sleep. The long months apart do not get to me in the same way, we are alike in that she and I. The days prior to arrival is when Anxiety wakes from its slumber, the long months then seem like some kind of incubation period during which a monster evolves.
The days number less than a week now. I find myself struggling with the everyday things, as if I’m overcome by a surreal blend of exhilaration and apathy. It has become a mantra of sorts, “less than a week now.”
To say that all of this has affected my sleep quite a bit would strike close to the truth, a broken rib has had a part in it too. Thus I have shone with my absence, but here’s to breaking that pattern.
After all, I’ll go crazy if I don’t stop counting the days.