We curl into fetus positions in moments of pain so sharp and … and clawing. Why? Is it because mental anguish, this fickle brain, tricks the body in reacting to a physical wound? That we hide our soft bellies from the threat? Now, that’s laughable!
Darling, the predator’s all in your head.
Maybe … maybe though, we fold into ourselves to mimic an old memory, as ancient as our first cells, floating, still oblivious to the universe of multitudes beyond that warm cocoon. Our mothers can only do so much.
Yet.
Yet, we can’t return to that place but we can tuck knees to chest and then arms hugging those knees, face pressed to soft thighs. And breathing, let’s not forget the breathing.
Not the rapid influx and rattling outward woosh but we ride that out. Then eventually, gently the slow slip-stream of the in and out. Breathe in … and out.
And contemplate.
Writing by Moonlight 