Impotency of Social Distance

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

“I'm tired.” she said.

Her words sent a jolt of recognition through me. Not just the words and their flat tone, but the familiar darkness they masked. It was so easy to rely on exhaustion as a crutch because it was so easy to be exhausted these days. Anyone could empathize with being tired and overwhelmed. They understood it. People couldn't usually understand depression but they mostly understood the symptoms. I remembered frequently lying about it myself when I was chained beneath the heaviness of that bleak, gray gaze. Saying I was tired also acted as a stop sign during conversations and if anyone questioned why, the lie that I was up late came easy and it was something they could buy. It was often true. So when I say I could see her answer before I asked the followup question, it came from looking back at myself and seeing her overlapped with that past me like a ghost, mouthing the same words.

Following the script, I asked. “How come?”

“I was up late and had to be here at five-thirty.”

"Of course."


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