I’m highly sensitive. Every day. Not just when it seems popular.
I can’t shake it, change it or think or feel differently. Sensory overload happens. Processing all that comes in can feel like hearing an orchestra of flowers blooming while simultaneously filtering through thunder.
I need an inordinate amount of quiet. So, I carve out nooks of silent pastures that freely let me process inside of a reverie. Sorting the colors and the extension cords of perfectionism’s wanderings, as they can be bold streaks of insights, subtle tones of connecting to the unseen and reaching and touching parallel inside of a fast-moving world where critics are bolts of lightning.
In between there is an arc that acts like a prism. I shield my eyes, silence my ears, cover my soul with blankets and let the trillion voices of everything slowly, slowly melt to the waves deep below the sea’s horizon. The earth’s holding is grounding as Nature supplants an intercourse of restoration. Holy is her abundance in the arms of sensitivity. Rocking the murmurs, the weeps, the angsts as an ethereal howl.
Holy. Holy. Holy. Respect your sensitive.