Sometimes I really admire my husband's autism and state of chronic depression that enables him to only get up for a few hours a day, manage to shower if he can, read some Wittgenstein or whoever he's into at the moment, some Torah, take his meds and go back to bed. He hasn't heard anything about Cecil the lion, Sandra Bland or the campaign to smear Planned Parenthood in recent weeks. He hasn't had to deal with any real life hassles. One day he may pop back into the real world. He does that occasionally, never fully.  I sit here with my antennae burned off, envious of his ability to disconnect.

And yes, I understand that his "real world" is as real as it gets, is as real as my real. Philosophically,  I've always understood that, but I'm full of envy this morning, exhausted because I am the caregiver, and also in awe because I haven't yet learned to let go in ways that don't fully disengage me from my emotions or my melancholy love for the world. Max can drift in his anhedonia sometimes, distracting himself with pure reason, and I marvel at that.