Have you ever reached a point where you are so overwhelmed by inputs that you can scarcely make sense of it all?
This is what the past week has felt like to me. Between personal life - Nighean Gheal graduating from high school - and a series of national and world events that just in a six month period would have left one's breath taken away, let alone a week - it feels as if the whole world is simply accelerating.
Towards what? I wish I had a better - or perhaps more correctly said, a happier - sense of it all. But all I can see, except for a few glimmers of light (like graduations, for example) is a sort of endless, mind numbing, overloaded darkness.
It is not that it is especially depressing - perhaps simply from the fact that even depression feels like more of an organized thought pattern than I can muster at the moment. It is more of a sense of events moving faster than I can make sense of them.
Unchecked, this sort of thing can lead to madness. Too many what ifs and might bes to fully comprehend, a swirling vortex of possibilities that lead to nowhere particularly welcoming. It is like H.P. Lovecraft's fictional Necrononicon by Abdul Alhazred, purported to drive anyone who dared to plumb its depths mad.
Which is why, I suppose, the simples things of my life - rabbits and gardens and harps and books and even Iai - have a power far beyond their humble activities. They allow one to make sense of one's world in the small, still areas of dappled sunlight amidst the clouds, the quiet sense of something that is useful and good simply in its execution.
True, a rabbit will never avert the end of the world and most gardens are a far cry from the sort of thing that one might actually need if things were to go badly - but honestly, in the event such things were to happen what would I remember more: the violence and tragedy of the world's events or the quiet sound of a rabbit eating hay?