just enough pathos

Right now my head’s a spinning top, as alone as that fish in a bowl at my workplace. I am swimming in circles and hitting my head against the glass occasionally. It’s not easy to transform and it’s tragic that I am even trying. Midnights are special again but I am perpetually sleep-deprived, perpetually crabby/weepy/angry. My brain is swinging to and fro and ideating is much more difficult than I thought it would be. You are my root, and my nook. And you are a feeling which is unfathomable, often brushed aside. I don’t know if it will rain this autumn, but you will be gone, and maybe there won’t be a tempest anymore, or maybe the idea will be lost.