Gifts from the God 

of Nervous Breakdowns

Exhaustion that brings on 

a spiritual resignation

from unessential things.

You find clarity amidst chaos.

Resignation brought on by

the realization that you will never

know why anyone does anything.

You live free of judgment.

The realization that someone you 

care for is fast asleep and that

waking them is not an option.

You develop quiet compassion.

The notion that nothing good

can come of your desire for escape

so prison is what you will make of it.

You value sanctuary.

Realizing we live in a culture that

encourages vanity and selfishness

then leads to your dropping out.

You are humbled.

An unexpected repugnance to

a second glass of red wine

dispelling a belief in further climbs.

You drink less.

The illogical hunch that three is no

greater than two and that one 

was always more than enough.

You become economical.

The “turn on” that accompanies 

turning everything off and facing

your naked self in silence.

You harbor no secrets.

The compulsion to paint words on stones

and leave them anonymously in the paths

of those that are sad and lonely.

You relate with the angels.

The premonition that a houseplant is God’s

way of granting green wishes, but that

God is repulsed by being thought a Genie.

Your prayers are no longer wishes.

The feeling that a rainy day means less

to live up to and you find yourself

oddly mesmerized by an encroaching storm. 

You know weather is earth’s emotions.

The sudden temptation to collapse

in a place you’ve never lived

a moment of daily practicality.

You leave no stone unturned to feel new.

Peter Valentyne

October 27th, 2020