It's hot and humid, with condensation sticking to the windows, lampposts and awnings. A visible haze hanging over everything.

Much like the thundercloud hanging over my head. I'm glowering. Grumpy. Ready to explode.

The reports that dominate screentime on the televisions here are alternately horrific and devastating. There are the reports of more than a thousand people killed while trying to flee a supposed suicide bomber. There's the water in the South, with looters preying upon the desertion of a city and increasing devastation.

You're acutely aware of what's going on, of course, but after being innundated with the images, it's a natural reflex to want to curl up and focus on what's happening close to home. There's too much happening outside, too much sadness and intensity.

So you do curl up, retreating into the imagined bubble that is supposed to protect you from harm. And you take a look at what's going on in your life, and you realize that maybe you should focus again on what's happening to others.

Things in your life are painful when they shoudn't be, dormant when they shouldn't be, obnoxious when they shouldn't be. You feel as if you're in a funk that shouldn't exist. But things have gotten to you. And that makes all the difference.

I cried myself to sleep last night for the first time in recent memory. Shortly after I turned off my lamp, a number of things finally managed to get through the thick skin I've been trying to develop. They struck me right at the nerves and I just broke down. I sobbed until my sides hurt and until I started to lose my breath. One side of my spare pillow was damp when I finally loosened my grip on it.

I forced my breathing to become steady again and then closed my eyes. I'd worn myself out from the crying and fell asleep easily.

But then I awoke and turned on the news. And realized that there would be little to force me out of the doldrums today. It looked like the cloud was going to remain over my head.

And then I stepped outside into the haze.