The details of my life are inconsequential

When you have to attend to the reality of things, the mere incidents of surface existence, the depth fades into the mysterious stillness beneath. Exhaustion seeps into every nerve of my body. My mind slows to a stop and confusion is temporarily subdued. Why does it all seem so pointless? The empty numbness seething inside me beckons for relief, for feeling and knowledge but my mind can not accommodate those desires with locked gears.
Then one day
The pain of remaining a bud
became more unbearable than the pain of blossoming.
The painful anxt of becoming mad.