On sincerity

I yawn very frequently. It’s the medication, not lack of sleep. Back on anti-depressants like nothing ever changed from four years ago but, of course, so much has.

Some days it’s difficult to concentrate, while others my “non-functionality” is cured. I wake up quite well (this is the part we don’t really talk about) and luckily have a bit of energy to open the seven-minute workout app on my phone a few times a week. Lately I’ve been listening to the same music. Someone gives me papers to sign. I type.

I often wonder how easy it is—going from intense and overwrought contemplation to not wondering much at all. It’s medication, surely, but I can’t tell if I’m satisfied with just that.

Midday. We all have some version of who we are at two, three in the afternoon. We drift off into no-man’s land, saturated beneath office lighting, and douse in a coffee or tea break as the day rolls on. Normally. As it should.

Where was I when history was being made, in some other place, some other period of time, and everything changed on an issue that I cared so deeply about? I clock in, clock out. Take the meds at night. It’s not profound.


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