The long days are taking their toll.
Only two things can sever me from the world. The first is the life-long melancholy that occasionally manifests as outright winters of the soul. The second is the more recent exhaustion that typically culminates as wholesale abductions of my body-mind.
Right now, I’m here and not here. Right here, I’m now and not now. Fatigue keeps me from finishing my thoughts. So I gestate the same stillborn ideas again and again, with a tedious and frustrating sense of déjà vu.
In moments like these, I think: this is what being old must feel like, and I shudder. To endure the disintegration of one’s body is one thing; to witness the dissolution of one’s mind is another.
(Yes, the exhaustion is the insidious gap through which the melancholy often slips.)
The long days are definitely taking their toll.
Still: better to have long days than none.