Post-doctoral depression, anyone?

What a weird, weird day.
I came home - home, that is, as in childhood home - yesterday. Noone is home. The parents are in Spain on holiday, the brother lives further north, and the grandmother has been gone for near two years.

This reality hits me somewhere between Sandnes and Stavanger, and the melancoly stays with me all through the evening, night and morning.

Solitude, chosen, ensures my inner dialogue. Feeling.
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
Somewhere, a rawness that I hadn't foreseen.
Not lonelyness, but ungrieved sorrow, solitude, need. Unfocussed unrealized unthought need. Or -
I honestly don't know.

The headstone wording is pretty carelessly carved.
[I need to go change, I'm going out]

And the absence of continued distraction, in the shape of the email I want and wait for prevents me from procrastination on these matters, tears unwept.

Somehow it seems fitting that Rig emails me to say that she is SAFE from the London terror.

They talk about post-doctoral depression. This isn't depression. This is just unfelt emotion catching up. And July, the time of departed loved ones, though old.

I am in danger of smoking.