Approaching Vulnerability by Degrees

Today was hot, and I was overly tired from both the heat and some medicine. I tried to write but couldn't think hard. How did the ancient people who lived in hot climates manage to think? Maybe they had air conditioning systems without electricity based on technologies we have lost, lived their lives at night. Maybe they only wrote in their cooler seasons. 

Someone described me today. He said he used to start fifty projects at once and pour himself completely into them, only to lose steam, drift, fail to finish. Why does it help me feel better about myself when someone reports suffering from the same insanity I do? It doesn't make me more sane, but it feels so good, like seeing someone else with a lousy haircut, only bigger, like a hidden wound has been dressed, like hope. Knowing it makes someone else feel that good could encourage me to share my peculiar failings, if I can remember how the good felt at the right moment, when I am actually speaking.