I don't know where the verity is in this.

It occurs to me I have been struggling, unsuccessfully, for five years not to look pathetic, not to look like a post-divorce cadaver, moving zombie-like through the world without interaction.

I make feints at engaging—trying to “move on” as goes the popular phrase—but it seems I run into many blank walls; little incidents where my energy, time, and emotions disappear into the bland flat surface without a ripple, without apparent effect or affect.

I stare blankly at those moments and struggle against the urge to go home, close my door, and not come out.

I don't know where the verity is in this.