Is this loneliness? I mistrust it as loneliness, lest I discover myself to be the ype of person capable of being lonely even among friends, even among the dearest I can gather to myself, I still answer their sweet call with a hard hearted loneliness.

So I reject it as loneliness. It is something else. Must be some other call. I can call it asthma if I like. Physical, or Mental. Or maybe this is just my hypochondria. Always examining in times of war, searching for wounds of soul, of spirit, of mind, of body. If they aren't present, we can manufacture. Some sense of propriety tells me I should feel something, so I come up with a constriction of lung. Perhaps its just panick in the face of a deadline. Deadline to emote.

--

Today I was in the back of the house, the back I had entirely forgotten existed, having locked myself into a basement, front lawn-as-seen-from-kitchen, inner courtyard-as-seen-from-living-room sort of routine. Well, I was washing windows, did the insides yesterday, and went out early to get at the outsides today, which took me to the back yard. Children playing in the daycare nextdoor, excited about hotdogs for lunch, and floating across the next yard from an open window in the house entrenched, a thin high note of violin. In the backyard with squeegee and windex bottle both hanging from my shorts I found baby bunnies.

I walked through a patch of ivy under the window (hope I didn't destory anything important) and found a mirror odd shuffling movement skittering away from me in the ivy. I followed it to its source, quivering on the edge of the patch and found a tiny baby bunny. Its ears not longer than inch, holding still as tiny bunny-ness can manage, pretending not to exist in hopes that I would leave it unharmed. Unharmed I left it, resisting urge to touch, to stroke, to lift tiny bunny ears. A few feet away another stripe of fearful ivy shuffling began, but I couldn't find that baby bunny amonst the ivy and leaves. I didn't try too hard, not wanting to upset the bunnies to a point of danger to them and their tiny pure lives.

Life somehow seems more precious when it is small. Unless it is insect life. GAh.