Muzu Creative

    I'm in that place. Again. So close and small, silent. So far below, cant feel the flow. Nothing moving, nothing touching. Breath in, out. On the surface, normality, daily tasks dutifully performed. Duty Filled. Down below, cant feel the flow. Oppressed, depressed, distressed. I wait. Longing for that moment, that whisper, a distant flicker. A flash of petticoat possibility, butterfly wing caress. I wait. Breath in, out...repeat. The sun tinged moment of hopefulness, of maybes. Look for it, yearn for it. Know it will come. Has to.

I need new swimmers. The ones I have are no longer comfortable. Apart from my body now gaining excess flab at a rate of knots not dissimilar to an impending cyclone, I have lost a breast. Not on the bus, not at the beach or left behind on the back of a chair at a restaurant (I miss that jacket) but on the operating table. Breast Cancer. Bummer. I never had knock out boobs. You could barely call them boobs. More like good looking nipples on a slightly raised chest muscle. "Arty Boobs" is what my husband calls (called) them. They were never going to sag, or hurt my neck, or get heat rash underneath them. They never made exercise torture. Mind you they never made boys look, or got me into clubs for free. My boobs were never the focus of discussion and certainly never hurt me physically. Emotionally there was pain. When I was younger I desperately wanted to wear beautiful lingerie, have low cut tops and longed to buy a dress that fitted my voluptuous bum without just gaping an...