Its a bizarre Christmas, not anything I would do by design. The brickbats are coming thick and fast (if I can call them brickbats as they are not uncomplimentary remarks as such). For years I’ve been working through thoughts and feelings born of regret, remorse and grief.
External tragedies - those affecting us personally but of external origin can hit hard and I wouldn’t want to diminish them - but when you are party to the tragedy it has a special sting. There is no corner to hide in where the ghost looks past. He is waiting for you and can patiently sit out the drama up to the point where your guard drops.
Its exhausting having to navigate the neurons that spark unpredictably, throwing your equilibrium and making the next task doubly difficult. The ideal is to be quick on your toes and be alive to the random threats and pleasures that life delights in rolling across your path. The dance is your opportunity to improvise and invent and makes you interesting even if that’s not the mood you’d planned for that evening.
The ordinary is death. That’s what you’re running from. Not death in the termination of life but a stasis that has a macabre unlife of its own. Its the terminus that seems was where you were always heading should you not specifically plan otherwise. Its where the teacher predicted you going based on the effort you put into your school work, but seeing as you were, by…
