The announcer in your head

Count the layers on today. On the bottom sits a plain heaviness. The physical kind, there no matter what you think about it. On top sits everything you've said about it since this morning. Why am I like this? I should be past this. Everyone else manages. The bottom layer is heavy. The top layer is the one wearing you out.

Part of the bottom layer may be a brain relearning to steady itself. The cigarette handled your moods from the outside and never taught you to leave one alone. The top layer is commentary. It's an announcer in your head, calling play by play on a rainy afternoon, making every drizzle sound like a disaster. It sounds like observation. It's only a habit of speech, and it's optional.

Watch what the announcer does to a plain low day. It builds a case against you, with exhibits, running under everything. That's where the tiredness comes from. Mute it, and what's left is a heavy day. Heavy, but small. A heavy day with no announcer is just a day, and days end.

When the announcer starts up, answer with one line. Today is heavy, and that's all it is. Then go back to what you were doing. Ten times before dinner, if that's what it takes. God doesn't need your commentary to stay close. He'll hold the heavy part as it is. If the weight moves in and won't leave, week after week, get your doctor's eyes on it. That takes courage. No trial, no verdict. Just a heavy day in a free life.