update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/007.md

@@ -38,7 +38,17 @@ This is my supposition for The Woman and her dream after she came home from my h
 
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+The longer we live — and, my dear readers, I will remind you that I am now 333 years old! — the more evident it becomes to us that there is fractally cyclical nature to life: the years spiral up and the months spiral around and the days spiral forward — weeks are a construct borne out of our inherited faith — and so we live within a fractally cyclical tangle of time.
 
+I know this. You know this, I am sure, on however instinctual a level, for you are clever and bright and you see the world with fresher eyes than I have. You are cleverer and brighter and fresher than your humble narrator who paces the empty rooms of her house and fills them with the soft muttering of the mad.
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+The Woman knew this as well. When she woke from her nap — for my astute readers remember that that is how this rambling chapter began! — she could now — in a way she could not before — feel and perhaps even see these spirals. She could see the way that her 227 years had spiraled up around her. She could see the way that time bound her, tied her up in coils and coils and coils and coils and coils. She could see these coils — however metaphorically — as they twine around her legs and torso. She can feel these coils — however metaphorically — slowing her down, holding her arms to her side and limiting her reach. They — these coils — obscure her.
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+Ah, my friends, I am struggling. I can feel and see these coils, yes, and am obscured.
+
+I am going to lay down, and perhaps I will dream.
+
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