Work in progress

Sewing a 1780's dress, a black 1890's skirt, a med-fan dress, a 1890's walking dress and a 1780's hunting dress, dying a little summer dress,
Knitting a large scarf, a woolen mattress, gloves,
Sewing three cushions and a plush octopus,
Working on my german, my spanish, on my italian, on my chinese,
Studying psychology of popularity, maybe starting social psychology

I guess I could try and work on my feet, on my hands, play violin more often, work on my writing, my book, my journals.

I look at the calendar and watch the days going by without having a grip on them.
I go out, meet some friends, some very dear to me, some I barely know.
I read and work and breath and walk.
Somethings's off.
I couldn't say what. A numbness inside me, cold and damp, talking in a low voice, whispering into my ears, dark words for my heart.
The blanket is warm, when all the rest feels cold. Sleeping but not resting.
Feeding my brain but never feeling challenged. Bored with everything. Where did all the light go? The excitement? The Wonder?
Everything tastes like ashes. Everything is dead and grey. All is quiet. A hollow shell, a moving body eaten from the inside.

And yet.
One step at a time, life goes on. I go on, working, studying, sewing, knitting. So many little things. Keep calm and carry on.
The weight is crushing me, but it doesn't mean I have to crumble. Sometimes the best victory one can hope for is just that: to stay alive, to make it to the next day. To keep moving. Just one more day. Another morning, another evening. One day at a time. Not letting go.
I can walk in the shadows, I know the place. I don't need light. I just go on. one foot after the other. Keeping faith. No sword, no war cries, no great lightnings. Just the muffled sound of my feet on the dust.
There's no glory to gain in this battle, there's no gold, no medal. No great deeds.
The daily battle, discrete and quiet, that never ends and never attract attention.