When I stop, I tend to dream. My hopes and longings bubble up unhindered by busyness, but they are so incongruous in comparison with my physical state that moments of elation are swiftly followed by moments of depression.
I don’t feel depressed while writing this, so you don’t need to grab your box of tissues. I just wanted to have a bash at explaining something I can’t easily describe. I don’t even know how to finish this post, but life alas seems to require days like these – riding out the silly fatigue, putting my desires and expectations in the corner of the room and allowing myself to feel and act like mulch. Perhaps those who need rest the most resent it the most.
Eventually, the mulchiness is moulded into something rather more helpful – quietness of heart. But such a thing is not acquired by the flicking of a switch or a mere intention. No, first I have to master the mulchiness of a dynamic personality warring against the stagnancy of fatigue. Then, and only then, does serenity seem to have a chance.