The past few days were great: music, sunshine, hummus, weed oil and friends. Why does Monday always have to roll around like an officious officer, officiating, just when you start feeling free? During the weekend it seems if you can drink enough beer, or smoke enough pot, you might be able to stave it off for a few more days. This is just a deceit of course, but it does feel that way; and feeling is a form of knowing, right? Perhaps only for the blind.
Sunday, at breakfast, during a conversation with Kim and Simon, I'd suggested that as we age there is a tendency to accumulate pain and bitterness, anger, chronic sadness. We are magnets moving through a junkyard of despair, picking up as we pass, large, twisted hunks of sharp metal, nails, screws and bolts, until we are overburdened and numb; monstrous men made of iron; of shards and shells, shrapnel from blown up bombs. As I said this, I saw in their faces a gentle but firm disagreement, which caused me to pause and consider the prophetic brand of doom I was espousing. They reminded me that there is a choice; to persevere and ride faithfully toward triumph, or to subscribe to timidity and embrace resignation, self imposed self pity.
They're right, of course.
It's strange how we hold on to loss, how much richness it can have in our hearts. We build empires of our failures. It's easy to frame your world by the things you've lost, or never quite had, because in life you lose more than you gain. If you would counter-argue, and hold that you gain more than you lose, then reconsider - it simply isn't so. Perhaps it can be argued that it was never ours to begin with.
It sure did feel like it was, though. What was it I said about feeling again?
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