You might have noticed, if you’ve been following this blog at all (and if you haven’t, and you’ve still noticed, then you are incredibly observant and possibly psychic) that the tone has undulated, rising and sinking with the tides of my moods and situation.

And you might have noticed, if you’ve been following this blog for the last few posts, that there’s been less of that recently. I wish I could tell you it’s because things have improved.

They haven’t.

They’ve changed, the problems shifted and reformed themselves, and the ground remains utterly unstable.

I just haven’t been writing about it.

Mostly because I’ve been willing myself to believe that the unreliable sand had hardened into something more dependable, not cement, but maybe at least wet sand, which may sink underfoot but at least holds your weight.

Usually.

I once did this thing with a friend that told you what animal you are. She was a tortoise.

I was a hare.

We laughed about it, each of us disbelieving our own diagnosis, but completely hysterical over the accuracy of one another’s. There’ve been many times we’ve had to remind one another of the natures we deny.

Recently, though, I think I’ve taken on some of the characteristics of the tortoise, pulling myself inside of my shell and pretending that that dark, secret warmth is the whole of the world.

The future is always uncertain, of course, but sometimes, when it keeps taunting you and redirecting itself, it’s hard to keep thinking about it, projecting about it.

Writing about it.

So some days I’ll pretend that the most important thing in the world is Doctor Who (I’m almost completely caught up, it’s a great way to pass the time in my shell) and some days I’ll be more honest.

Either way I’ll tell the truth, but sometimes it might flutter, and other days, drop. I just don’t know until I start typing, because while the shell can be comforting, it can also turn claustrophobic.