I think this is an important note to write. I am sick of myself. I watched The Golden Globes to the bitter end. I found them boring yet there was nothing else to do. I champion no causes, having more sense than to think we can make the world a better place. If that were possible, it would already be that.
Here, the best we can do is find our voice and then realize how senseless being mechanical is. To do everything by rote out of fear and trembling of what others can do to us. And they will find new ways to do it, despite the propaganda machine.
It is time to laugh and cry about it all, as Leonard Cohen says. I sum up my life easily. Nothing worked out and I am determined to stay at the helm of a sinking ship. I do it so well. If the ship sailed to exotic ports, it would not be mine.
My port is tiny and I hug the shoreline due to the advancing sea. Erosion happens. Undermining is a fact.
Increasingly I notice how poorly I have managed my life. Sometimes all I can do to feel better is to dust the furniture and straighten out the clutter. (And there isn’t much of that.)
On rare occasions I have a good day. It is then I fall victim to hope and remembering better days and happier times. A good cry is therapeutic.
I put one foot in front of the other and am positive of how little I know and how much power the world has over me.
Jesus wept. But He also rose from the dead. I take courage in that, at least.
Down with the online purveyors of finding inner peace so easily. They are sleeping the soundest in a cemetery of bare beginners.