A steady stream of ants crawls down the window sill to the edge of the sink and back up again, round and round, I notice pain in my right hand and realize once again I’m gripping all my fingers except one, my typing finger. I type with one finger, my back hurts and I’m a perimenopausal woman. I’m finally starting to admit to myself I may be a manic depressive just like my mom, and share many more of her undesirable traits, especially in regards to how the male population views these stereotypical undesirable traits women tend to have. As Such. My need to be part of my community. My desire to create and share it with the world. My unconditional no holds bar to my babies. My constant need to protect myself and others and care about the world and people and animals, to feel that I am dying with the ignorance of humanity but to know that is just a reflection of how I am feeling at this moment. Something inside me is unsettled. Why? Why did I jump on all those Trains and Buses when I was young? But now I want to stay put. Nestled in a mountain. In a bird nest with my chicks. Why does my heart race? Why am I hit over the head and knocked out in my nightmare and I wake up panicked by a nightmare so awful it could never be repeated in detail to a single person? I have to go to my studio right now and paint. Before Jack and Fiona wake up from their nap. I have an hour and a half.