I am not well. My irritation is pure PMS (thank you , my dear friend Sara, for setting me straight that no, everyone is not purposefully being an asshole just to make my life miserable), but the heaviness gathering in my belly and my great desire to be wrapped in fuzzy blankets at all times is something else.
Feeling like – being – an instrument controlled by nerve receptors and hormone leakings makes me question the point of anything. I feel like nothing more than a highly-refined reptile. I wonder if this descent into the mental life of a snake is partly to blame for all the crying we depressed people do. We're flooded with inexplicable grief, like someone dear to us died. We lost something essential that kept us warm. We lost something that kept us human.
All I can hold onto right now is what the yogis discovered – a system that expands and liberates even the most stubborn, infantile, unworkable minds. They found an opening to the beating heart of the universe. I have to have faith that they were onto something. Otherwise, I should just unhinge my jaw, swallow a whole mouse and then go sit on a warm rock for the rest of my life.