Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
Macbeth Act IV, Scene 3
Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.
I’ve been leaning rather heavily on my friends and family of late. Selfish of me, I know. People don’t always comprehend the nature of the burden they are offering to share, so it’s easy to become overwhelmed. Consequently, I’ve tried to dial it back a bit, with varying degrees of success.
My emotional mind is a bit of weird place right now. The voice in my head – the observer – sometimes loses focus and goes off on its own to wander the emptiness of liminal space like a confused dementia patient lost in a shopping mall. I’m sure it’s not normal to dissociate for extended lengths of time, but I have spent so much of my working life in meetings that it’s almost second nature now. The key difference is I don’t get an Outlook notification for these episodes.
There’s a fuzzy edge to sanity. Clarity is reserved for those who aren’t anywhere near it.
