Life in Pillville feels mostly unbloggable these days. I tell myself it can't be worse than holding your dying lover. It can't be worse than being dumped for a woman twenty years younger. It can't be worse than wailing in the doctor's office that anti-depressants are needed right now. It can't be worse than standing on a bridge and looking at your shoes and imagining them wet, the wet crawling upwards.
All those things happened. And I think that might actually be why things feel so bleak. I've got some kind of cumulative thing going on here.
But really, I'm all right. Every morning I wake delighted with the day. Good morning, world, I say aloud. And I am truly so happy to be alive to see the full moon set and the sun rise.
And I ask myself what kind of person I want to be. Kind, I say. Patient, I say. Full of love, I say. And each moment feels like erosion. Like sandpaper to the soul. Start over, I say. And I do. I do. I really do keep starting over.
But there's nothing like a situation that feels stuck to prompt one to get other stuff done. That tree that's needed trimming? The cruddy under-the-sink spot in the laundry room where the catbox used to be? Done and done. New hairstyle? Why not. If you can't change your life. Change your hair.
And I'm working toward some other changes too.