The bath bomb transformed the water a vibrant blue and I stared at it, silence all around me, searching for something it reminded me of.

The eyes of someone I love.

The sky at dawn near the mountains when the moisture is thick about you.

The hydrangea bushes in front of my childhood friend’s house.

It was then I caught sight of my body below it. Startled, I thought, I don’t know this body.

My wrinkled stomach like a balloon deflated, yet somehow full, was shockingly white. My thighs, covered in dozens of freckles, looked like the skin of my daughter’s back. I had to touch them to see if it was me.

I’m 40 years old, and I feel as if I barely know anything at all. It’s off-putting to feel so unsure of yourself, so undone by your life, so completely and utterly alone.

“You need to stop being so busy.”

“What are you running from?”

I’ve heard these words from my mother and friends for years.

They ask me as if I know.

They look at me as if I can see.

I can’t. I don’t know. I’m not who you think I am.

This is such self-centered bullshit, all of it, this blog, my life, my writing. I’m beating my head against a brick wall praying for it to be a pillow so I can rest. Walking around, moving, moving, moving, always moving, so I don’t feel the truth of it all crush me.

Don’t look at me, but please for the love of God would somebody look at me. I’m more than the chores I do around my house, the books I escape into, the words I write in desperation, the tears I don’t even allow out anymore.

I’m alone in the blue of the water, sinking into nothing, slowly heading toward nothing, but still dreaming and hoping for something.