Over-sensitive is an understatement.
Sometimes it’s hard to function. Like those days when every human interaction is as tense as tracing the edge of a razor.
Conversation is nightmarish. Each rhetorical intonation is internalized. Analyzed. Immediately personalized.
Muscles ache from muted intensity. Posture reflects defeat, bowing with hollowed fatigue. Somatic torture of the soul.
Believing that tomorrow will be better is a thing of the past.
Solitary recuperation in the dark of night requires awareness, acceptance, forgiveness, appreciation.
The raw storm of truth, so symbolically violent, a tempest of raging insight thrashed through the commonplace layers of ego, vanishes with the new day.
Weathered scars of intuition remain, like freshly churned debris scattered along the shore.
Ideas born, spawns of the storm, created with inspiring complexity.
Treasures among the debris, damning in creation, enlightenment through survival.
Don’t lose them.