Shame. The running narrative has always begun with white-hot embarrassments of random memories.
The ice pick of shame starts tapping into hidden corners, chipping away at the carefully constructed brick walls around those things I cannot forget, nor reconcile.
It drives me to write, to rage, to sit inside the storm until it passes. My instinct no longer compels me to flight but to let it flow until the inevitable occurs – a blessed numbness of sleep.
By the light, I can see how to put up the walls again. All day, silent activity consumes my emotional energy.
Ah, but sunset comes slinking back and brings a terrible sadness with it. The horrible, weeping, random grief is not as often as in my younger days, but when it comes, it comes with layered complexity.