I’ve been sitting on my couch since 4:47 AM, waiting for Brisbane to raise the dial on the heat and the humidity. Now it’s nearly seven o’clock, and the muggy warmth has settled in with that jangly feeling you get after too much adrenaline. The skin prickles and the muscle is half-caught in fight or flight. It’s not yet hot enough that you recognise the cause, unless you’re paying attention to what’s going on.
It has been a bad week. The gulf between what I wanted to achieve and what has actually been done is not too wide, but every failure feels like the failure when I’m in this particular mode. I am angry and I am frustrated and God, the awkwardness. Dealing with other human beings feels like a monumental task. I am performing triage on social obligations, trying to avoid anything that involves crowds or well-meaning acquaintances asking how I am.
Two weeks until I find out what I’m doing next year. It’s proving to be a long wait.
