There are times (more times than I care to admit) when volume is cleansing. Healing. When what your heart needs most is a wordless monolith, screaming a static squall and undulating rumble to hack away the desperate tethers that bind you to a deluded sense of communal worth and civic responsibility so that your lizard brain can run free among the ruins of your dreams (razed by great, unremarkable tempests of shame) in frenzied, focused effort to rebuild the man you can be so that one day, maybe some day soon, you can walk the city streets with a straight spine and clear eyes and focus, drive, hope or whatever you want to call the divine channeling of human grace the world deserves from you.
Yeah, it’s been heavy in this head of mine lately. Too heavy. And it took seeing Sannhet last Friday (“experiencing” might be a more operative term) just to get my face out of the dust that’s been poisoning me for months if not a year and though I don’t write to you, this morning, with a grand sense of illuminated renewal I do feel better. Much, much better. Like I can feel the shapes of my home.