When the Script Ends. 

My mind is a loop-de-loop

Always whirring and whirling 

Up and down, down 

Then up again

Over and over and over

Constant chatter ringing in my ears like the wind in a sail

It drives me crazy, but when the ride stops, the world goes white.

There’s no more thoughts when the script ends.

Lines stop coming and the images end in ragged cliffs, 

Words slip off the edge, 

plunging towards the bottom of nothingness.

How do I know that this is it? That this is the bottom of nothingness? 

I don’t. I don’t know for certain. Perhaps it’s nothing. Nothing but a blip in the playbook of my life, a hole in my memories.  Perhaps it’s solely a break? Perhaps I should see it as a gift? Perhaps I should give thanks to my playwright for this intermission.

The bottom of nothingness is a place I hope you never see.

I hope it never goes white inside your beautiful mind.

I hope your words flow freely,

dancing along to the rhythm of your life. 

I’ve been to the bottom of exhaustion.  I’ve cozied up with the barren expanses.  I’ve become accustomed to the dust that settles on my weak frame, laying on me like a blanket, but weighing me down like a brick.  I know every nook and cranny of this pit. I know it all too well.  I wish I didn’t. I wish I was nothing but a stranger.  A passerby.  The bottom of exhaustion is a dark alley that makes you clench your coat a little bit tighter and makes you walk a little bit faster.  Oh to be oblivious to the chilling chains of fatigue.  

But how could I be? How could I possibly be that passerby? How could I possibly walk briskly by, knowing how cold that alley is? How could I possibly clench my coat without thinking of those still in the pit? How could I not take a moment to lay down my coat, to lower down a hand of rescue for those I left behind? I couldn’t.  I won’t.

But I will promise.  I promise it will get better.  It will.