On The Periphery
There is always a quote or a verse for every occasion.
I have stacks and notebooks and walls full of them. Can't think of a single one to head this dreary upcoming piece.
I finally fell asleep at 4am thinking of the ones I CAN trust: my 2000+ books. Why else would they be insulating my walls?
I am too broken to write.
It may be the biggest taboo, but I cannot be the only one who has been broken by their own child.
I think of all the mothers who have children with bad habits. I am thinking of drugs, of course. But what about the junkies who also walk the streets? How do these mothers cope?
My son is mentally unwell. Nobody sees it. Not really and definitely not consistently nor how pervasive it is and what it would take to remedy it. It leaves me the broken one: shattered by the windmills of her own mind, as if she went to stand under the mowing sails, arms raised to heaven to have her limbs chopped off and then her head. I don't know how low to the ground they mow, see! I may be having delusions of grandeur by imagining I am tall enough to be destroyed by the wind.
The reason I am writing any of this down here, is because in my hour of need I could think of only one person (from this platform) who stood far enough outside my circle, steady doing his own thing, fishing away in the cacophony of life for some sweet little melody, who could calm me down enough to pull through the night. It is interesting for me to note how that worked, just like that, out of the blue, since I am currently researching "peripheral identity" which is that I-that-I-am-in-the-other's-eye. It is not so much about what people think about you or that they are actively rooting for you; it is how everybody you ever meet potentially contributes to this identity and remains tied to it for as long as you keep them "in mind".
I am prone to take whole busloads of individuals along with me, finding my etheric field rather sticky in such instances. So I must have hundreds of thousands of strands gradually falling away out of "mind" or out of my "life"(the etheric body is a life-force body).
Extra interesting that you stood strongest, just doing your thing, while your world also has let you down.
That is how inspiration works. In teeny-weeny particles of dust, star-seeds, which help cool the overheated, oversaturated substance back down. The reminder.
For more on the type of star-seed I mean read: 
Photo of windmill at top by Kent Pilcher on Unsplash