Some days start, continue and end in a climate of weakness and confusion and everything feels too much. And this is an internal climate - mine!
So now I know it’s not really going to get easier. But perhaps it can keep becoming more fluid. Perhaps I can feel my way into the ephemerality of every hard moment.
Somehow the ephemerality of the happy moments, the strong ones, the softly joyful ones, is always to the fore. But it's not just the good bits, it's all of it: here, blink, gone. Hard, but not fixed; never lengthy; a flickering, ever-changing string of moments.
I increasingly wonder if the enormity of confronting this is what lies behind so much of human madness, cruelty, masochism; behind our obsessive need to build boxes, lock our own cell doors as well as other people's.
Out here, outside the boxes, there's no comfort. But just perhaps, also, since nothing is fixed, there's nothing to be so afraid of either.
Is it possible to pursue goals, to assert some productive organisation and structure without building myself a new box?
Weak, unexpected sunshine slants across the screen of demanding words and work. So, when a particular task is done and despatched, I go outside and touch the sunshine, kick my way through the fallen leaves.
season of mists