Almost-access.
Almost-energy.
Almost recuperation.

I do not have enough cognitive fuel to sustain it though.

I am in the abyss where exhaustion lies, but heavier.

Sadness without sadness.
Boredom with lots to do
Waiting for time to pass.
Thoughts and ideas that twinkle,
then fizzle out.
Forlorn… but not forlorn.

It isn’t exactly depression, it’s not quite sadness. Not despair. Not numbness.

It is reduced vitality.

The state of mind you “just know”.

The great romantic poets wrote from this place at times.

That strange state of heightened interior,
an existential heaviness, of course a poetic sensitivity.
All combined with being profoundly inconvenienced by ordinary life.

That “Why must I do the washing when the melancholy within is infinite?”

I am extremely tired from the hormone suppression treatment. Somewhat dramatic it seems too.

Would you believe me if I told you I was dressed in my casual Victorian clothing, quill in hand sighing loudly, with my other hand raised up to my brow like a wife in despair?

“Oh, how utterly done am I dear husband.
For my head is a shed and nothing exists inside it anymore”.

Yes, painfully dramatic, but perfectly unapologetic.

This space I came to loathe is temporary.

There is humour here now and I will lean into the histrionic Victorian role when I need to remind myself I am just visiting the abyss of almost, because rest will make almost whole again.

— Frost ❄️