There’s not a better way to visualise the unruliness of my adoption baggage right now.
Every so often it does this, bursting forth in torrents, uncontrollable and unpredictable. I wish it was as easily fixed as the reticulation, and that I had the emotional and spiritual equivalent of the hort staff that you can see there on the side in his safety fluoro.
But there isn’t. Perhaps I’ll write about the trigger for this over the weekend, because if I write now I’ll collapse and I have to keep my shit together and pretend I’m OK and pretend that I care about what I am paid to do. Always pretending. So much pretending in this adopted life.