Colors are the wounds of light
William Blake
I must have had a difficult dream life last night as I slept, because I woke feeling bruised and worn, hot behind the eyes. I woke just before dawn when it was still dark, watched the sun come up through the blinds on the door. Yesterday, I bought myself some tiny pink roses and put them in a vase and put the vase on my bedroom dresser. Under the vase, I put a white piece of notepaper on which was written the names and numbers of the people at Sophie's school who are supposed to be helping us. So much of my energy is directed toward the hostile, toward difficulty. I thought I'd let the colors do the work.
Does that make sense?
