Good Grief 72

Narratives
... and, ... through the square window ...
These were the two 'thoughts' that were in my mind this morning when I took this and now I can't for the life of me think what these tumbleweeds were up to blowing through the empty spaces in the desert grey matter of my so-called brain.
I guess it made me think of Play School and the story that would unfold through whichever shaped window that was chosen for that day.
I guess it made me think if 'making meaning' and of the occupational therapy that occupies the days ... pointlessly .. the feeling of futility.
I loved the light. I loved the way it turned the black painted window lintels into a burnished copper. I loved how the light melted what I thought was one reality into another.
I wonder about how, no sooner do I try to build a narrative that tries to make some sense, no sooner do I try to describe my world, no sooner do I try to bring some light, some descriptive sense to .... what ... to what ... I find I am at a loss. I don't know what it is that I am trying to describe, if I start, it peters out, fizzles like a damp squib into nonsense ... it is an Alice in Wonderland world of nonsense. I cannot even begin. And that lack of coherence can bring a feeling of a lack of validity, a sense of alienation, difference, and irritation with everything, and particularly with myself, of course.