Under-Sense and Over-Sensibility

It's late at night and I'll hopefully go to sleep soon.

The week has been like a merry-go-round of continuing activity. Aside from a heavier schedule of work, I overdid the exercise and underdid the eating so that the analogy is even more apt in that I've been spit, also physically, exhausted and half-nauseated into the weekend.

Today a few colleagues and I also concluded what were hopefully the last phases of a debate about principles and company-wide interests at work. My conscience hadn't left me alone until I rushed into a fray that I'd rather have avoided.

And mentally I am still spinning in circles like a caffeinated squirrel. It is also a bit depressing to realize — in the middle of writing answers to questions at work — that I've written error-filled and irrelevant stuff; maybe I really do need to build in more pauses.

But that's the glum view of things.

Then in the evening I read up on the U.S. President's views on the possibilities of the internal use of disinfectants in fighting viruses, which were not reassuring. Even if he later claimed — a claim that appeared in no wise supported by the video footage that I watched with my own lying eyes and lying ears — that it was 'sarcasm.'

Then I found that Twitter threw me into another 'anxiety spiral'. So although I am curious how other Republicans are reacting to his pearls of wisdom, it didn't appear wise to check it.

I've been catching up on YouTube subscription videos that had gathered unwatched for the past three months, on classic literature and home cooking and baking. Besides I have written two emails this evening, neither of which were in English so there was more head-scratching than usual.

The wind is wuthering, I think — the Brontës might disagree that this wind sound is what they heard — and rattling the windowpanes every now and then. It's a restless sound and a restless feeling, after the sun-soaked idyll of the past days. But let's hope that it's a wind like the one in the Dick van Dyke and Julie Andrews film version of Mary Poppins, and if we must interpret it subjectively and unscientifically as a sign, it may be a sign that a change is coming, but a good one.

A colleague is reading Sense and Sensibility, and perhaps it is time to immerse myself in something soothing and subtly critical like that too. The Marianne Dashwood within me is likely too strong and I must swing over nearer the spirit of Elinor.