My mind, it seems, is having a breakdown. I found her in a puddle of tears and a state of exhaustion. She was wailing, railing against the empty ocean. I didn’t know what to do.
“It’s like this,” she said, “I have run out of things to read and write and see and feel. I can no longer create myself!”
I listened as the rant continued.
“I have no ships coming in. As far as I look, I can see nothing headed in my direction. All the ships are sunk. All the battles lost.”
She meant it. Her agony was real. I listened some more.
“I want things to go my way. I have tried so hard. And look, it’s useless. Nothing in sight. I can’t even hear anything inside my head. It’s dark in here.”
I made a cup of tea and stayed in the kitchen, hoping she would settle down a bit before I came back in. I watched her as she begin to wind down a bit.
“I’m afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of the light. I’m afraid, period! I want to go on to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing.” Now she was crying real tears. I wanted to console her, but this is not allowed. It is never allowed while the mind is having its say. I could only watch and listen.
My mind (the mind in all humanity) begin to sound a different note. It was like a child crying for its mother, like a puppy whimpering for its littermate. Finally, I heard this one last cry, “Help!”
And happily I went into the room with her and surrounded her with my arms, the ones made of light. She fell asleep there for a time but I knew she would wake up suddenly, once again in need of something she could never have, at least not on the level she was seeking it. But I would be there. I would always be there.