You could not make this stuff up.
I can’t really tell you what’s been going on with me lately because, well, I can’t really tell. I hate not being able to tell, because not only could I make it into a good story but there’d be a certain poetic justice in the telling that would be immensely appealing to me. Like chocolate cake. But I can’t tell.
But this world I’ve been living in as a result of the [redacted] situation I seem to be in that is the fault of the [redacted][redacted] is surreal. Life is but a dream. Add to that the thing that is going on with me on a physical level, the one I am snarling about over on Facebook about the state of the United States health care (oxymoron) system, and there you have it.
I am so tired.
Tired is not the word. Who can sleep ten hours and then need a nap later in the day? Raise your hand if this is you. Oh, not you? It must be me then. And my day is punctuated by the Things I Must Do, like work, which occurs amidst the Things My Body Tell Me To Do, like lay on my bed meditating. (Staring at the ceiling through closed eyelids.)
Rest has not come easily to me in the past, and I fight it still.
My brain feels like it is under water. Or perhaps that someone sent it out for cleaning. Is it a bad sign that I can’t tell which?
I am sure this must have something to do with reorganization of priorities, but so far everything is being shuffled to the bottom of the pile and nothing is on top. Is this what non-attachment feels like? Because I just feel like lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, drifting slowly away.