On the downside, understanding it doesn’t help you to stop feeling it. It just helps you to understand yourself and how you got to where you are.
— § —
Maybe this is also a part of love, and of long-term relationships that last. Getting a handle on your significant other’s weak spots and trying to be sensitive to them. Offering what amounts, at the end of the day, to a little bit of emotional charity.
— § —
I’m supposed to be asleep right now and I thought that I wanted to go to sleep, but instead I’m lying in bed typing on a tiny keyboard on this damnable blog.
One of the difficulties that I’ve come to be conscious of over the years is that it can be hard to manage your blog as a context consisting of the posts that are on it. That is to say that after the last few days, (a) it seems as though we’ve veered rather narrowly and catastrophically in a particular direction that I don’t want to see become the norm here, yet (b) at whatever point I switch away and write other “types” of posts and/or about other “topics,” the change will seem strange and abrupt.
— § —
I have been struggling with day-to-day tasks since the holiday break. Laundry. Dishes. Aquarium. Litterbox. The little things.
It’s as though in the together time my inner self got the message that we were back together again, and now I have to go through all of the symptoms and stages of separation again, including the one in which I struggle to get things done responsibly.
— § —
Every time I have a “tough period” in my life like this, I become infatuated with materials, particularly non-synthetic materials.
Wood. Metal. Leather.
I find myself wanting to have these materials all around me, wanting to buy things and hold things that are made out of them, feeling as though they have been missing from my life, and absent-mindedly running my hands over them wherever I do have them in my life.
Wonder what that’s about.
But whatever. Enough psychoanalysis for the day.
— § —
I remember like it was yesterday my last day of teaching. How sad it felt. How I said goodbye inside myself to all of the things that mattered to me. Students. Desks. Chalkboards. Classrooms. Textbooks.
Everyone said I’d be back.
My wife was sure I’d do it again someday. As was my oldest friend. As were many fellow academics that I am in periodic contact with.
But more and more, as time goes on, it feels as though it may not be on the cards. A memory that I’ll hold, a path not taken, a former identity.
I get wistful and misty thinking about it sometimes.
It was meant to be. Yet it was not, in the end, meant to be.
Who and where am I know?
Who am I going to be, and where am I going?
— § —
I am a person that needs a mission in life. I cannot make others in my life into my mission. This leaves me with a huge, gaping hole that needs to be filled.
Meanwhile, I need to let go for the night and settle into my sheets. Unlike my wife’s sheets, no doubt, the ones here are a dreadful, disorganized mess. But I don’t really mind. I don’t notice much when she’s not here.