I feel betrayed by the quiet moments; they used to be my saving grace the time I’d use to steel myself for what comes next. Today the quiet moments are turning on a dime- they’re fuel to continue driving or they’re fuel to the flames. Doesn’t help that the thought of quiet conversation makes me discretely nauseous (they meant it as a promise of relief!)
I’m floating in the quiet moments, awash in time’s vast swell aching bones a prize of attempt a wordless, reasonless ache that I wear tucked away inside my breast pocket, in the marrow of my very being, and tucked deep in the recesses of my mind. Creativity, sure- but useless pain is the easiest to write about.
...and the most difficult to present without it sounding incredibly overdramatic.