I miss being able to process. Having moments of silence.
I just need (many, many) moments to let life pass by without my drum beating
I don’t care that I play a different beat, but I don’t want anyone to see me drumming.
There’s something to be said about being hidden.
You see, when people think they see you, they offer up their comments about how you breathe, or how you sit, or how you process.
And when your mind is already overloaded — I pretend my cheeks aren’t flushing, that I don’t hear the stutter in my voice — then all the opinions are friendly grenades in the siege of senses.
These things ingrained. Oh, these things ingrained in my motions, in my habits, in my way of thinking don’t allow for pretense. This is who I am. It is who I was shaped to be.
Do soldiers forget their training? If your essence was stripped bare, if your first feeling was fear of bombardment, would you ever be uncircumspect?
You take your moments when you can get them.