“Do you ever feel like you give too much of yourself?”
“Every single day,” I replied, knowing full well that I was giving too much of myself in that very conversation. I was pouring my heart out, watching it glug-glug and swirl down the drain. These words I spoke wouldn’t necessarily fall on deaf ears, just a deaf soul.
One soul that had grown so inward in recent days that it could not feel anything beyond its own borders. It had become autistic, closed off from the outside world, squelched by the static of roiling emotional turmoil surrounding it.
And I’m the only one who can reach in, blow through the barriers, and wake it the hell up.
Why is that, exactly? Because of some connection we’ve shared? Even considering the distance between us, and such a slender thread of wires and fiber-optics connecting us, that connection cannot be broken.
But when my own soul needs the same, when it needs to be shocked back to life with some psychological equivalent of those electrocuting heart paddles, where do I turn?
Dead to the world, running on autopilot, seeking desperately for some way to reconnect, I wait for some little event, person, or thing that will shock me awake and resuscitate me, mentally, until suddenly I can feel again, positive or negative, desperate depression or unbelievable high, I long for anything that is not neutral, I long for sinus rhythm in my mood…
And not just a flatline.
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