Just sometimes, occasionally, when the moment comes to stop after the relentless week, a window appears and I momentarily see, and feel, and realise, how hard it was, how really hard it was; the pain of it, the ways in which it seared through our lives, of when my husband was ill and the reality, the real reality of it. That which, at the time, I couldn’t bear to see, or at least saw it but saw it differently, because I had to cope with that day and the next, and so did he. I wonder if he looks at me, with me, through that window. Of course it wasn’t the only window, there was the oval, the circular, the rectangular ones too, but this one can be like a strange portal, a momentary sliding door that links back directly to that place that although I occupied it then, I feel like i really occupy it now. It makes me wonder about history... is history then or now?
It doesn’t open for long. Humankind cannot bear too much reality.

Note: this is partly on the back of listening to sense making and meaning making, heuristics, teleology, hermeneutics, ... no wonder my head hurts.