Cable Boxes, Broken, and Thinking

6:40am and I've pulled furniture from the wall and crawled through 4+ years of dust. I can feel it sticking to my palms, my arms, the back of my neck. My left hand is completely coated in the drab grey wonderfluff that is Hazel's hair, unvacuumed corner crud, and spider waste. I'm fumbling through the power cords, flashlight clenched in the crook between my neck and shoulder, swearing like a sailor in my favorite black nightgown - the one with the lace about the edges...which is now furry. *shudder*

There it is. I snag the cord and pull it from its socket. I count...28, 29, 30. Pushing the shiny silver prong back in, I wiggle out from where dust bunnies go to perish and sit disheveled and disgruntled on the floor watching the cable box whir back to life. Perhaps it was over-heated or over-worked or over-everything. Scrambled. Debilitated. Like some long forgotten magician's trick, there was a flash of light and the flicker of two-dimensional company joined me in the duskiness of dawn, rattling on about predicted weather and expected rainfall.

And it occurred to me (not a crash of thunder occurrence, more like a dribbling faucet of realization), that I am that cable box. I feel a bit scrambled, off-center, slightly broken. The electronic universe we are surrounded by - when something goes amiss, it needs a reboot. Not for just a moment, this will require time, some counting, and possibly a little breath-holding. A pause to let the circuits reset and the wiring cool down.

I need to unplug. So if you notice I'm missing, trust me - it's not you, it's me. I'm going to clear my calendar for  bit. Make room to read something other than a list, sit in the sun and think a while. Just for think's sake.