Sunday night and all is quiet. I've done my share of talking for today, and that feeling remains. I still feel as if I'm speaking Swahili. Nothing coming out of my mouth seems to make sense to anyone else.
I see it in their eyes, hear it in their bewildered voices. It's more than a misunderstanding. My mad communications skeels have hit the skids.
Larry and I drove around for a spell this afternoon. Such a good fella, that Larry. I felt terrible at my feeble attempts to say something that would contribute to our conversation. So I sat in sullen silence for most of the time, wondering.
It feels like I'm just ganglia. No more brain, no more firepower shooting between my ears. Just involuntary responses.
I'm going to put my head on a pillow now and try to sleep. It hasn't been the easiest trip to Dreamland the past couple weeks. Too many dreams, and not good ones about Mitt Romney picking Paul Ryan. These dreams are messy. These dreams feel ... sinister. Fraught with unpleasant undertones of things left unsaid.
Enough. The quiet should bring peace. Or at least a lack of discord. That's the hope.