A White Light, Still and Moving

Last night, 'round midnight, I cried myself to sleep.

I don't want pity or sympathy or anything of the sort. I'm simply relating the factual history of events.

And really, for what was I weeping? I tried to rationalize the whole mess through tears and fevered temples and weary limbs.

It seems that, since I've had much activity going on in the past week, I haven't had a real chance to sit and process my current state of emotion and wellness. Then, last night, things hit heavy...

Speaking regularly and writing regularly to someone has helped my mental state immensely, from what I gather. In truth, though I do have passing conversation here and there, something common and everyday doesn't in fact happen for me every day. I don't have people in my life with whom I simply chat idly, or can "shoot the breeze with," as they say. Even conversations with my partner revolve around weighty and crucial topics. There is no lightness or levity.

My heart sinks just recalling this now, and how for the past week or so, I've had more or less casual talk, which was put on pause yesterday.

Why did it affect me so painfully?

Perhaps it is because I have been craving this sort of thing for a while now. Years, in fact. So engaged and invested did I become, that a mere day of not having a daily chat in my schedule absolutely wrecked me. Kind of sad, in a way...

I am well aware that this is an overreaction. A blowing up and out of proportion to the events happening in reality.

But what if my reality has been one of deprivation and social starvation? What if, for years, it has been a longing for human contact that forms the (assumed) basis for most people's lives?

Surely then my reaction isn't so unfounded, yes?

I can't say that I truthfully know.