Depletion feels like this: roar of voices brushing past the sides of my face; sets of tiny hands clutching tasks in one fist, grabbing my shirt with the other and pulling, pulling; lists blurry with wavy scribbles crossing off items, so cluttered with pen marks I can barely read those yet undone; pressure building hydraulic, a frustration, as those who ought to have been more flexible refuse to bend.
My fingers become sore from typing emails.
I can't bear to have even one more conversation, even with someone I like. Even my words seem like pieces of me, broken off and handed away.
So I bake and cook. I literally feed myself and others. Grind up and pulverize the day in the food processor, emulsify it with oil to suspend all the particles and keep them in place. Powders and solids in a bowl, add liquids and scrape the resulting lava-like batter into pans. Bake until the rising process stops, as it must because that chemical reaction can go on only so long under heat. Marinate and chop and mix.
Ingredients in columns, steps and processes that result in a product shaped and refined by me. It becomes what I want to smell and taste--consumed, it reconstitutes me.