Hmm.
In light of recent events, I am once again left wondering what it is that I really want.
Every time I think of a woman coming into my life, I think of mornings spent in bistros and cafes, afternoons spent browsing curiosity shops, and formal evenings at art events or wine and conversation at home. These are things to which I almost never treat myself: and, if I do, it sometimes feels good, but never right. My happiness, somehow, is wasted on me; in order to be truly effective, it should be doing something for somebody else. It should be helping somebody else to feel good.
I think one of the most profoundly isolating things that I have had to deal with over the last few years is the lack of intimacy in the morning. Being alone in the evening gives me time to read or listen to music and also to hope that tomorrow will be better. Waking up alone, eating alone, watching the news alone serves only as a reminder of this day being just like every other day. That's really starting to wear on me.
I'm not sure how to find the way out. I can't help but believe -- but hope -- that there is a way out. C. S. Lewis says, "what chokes every prayer and every hope is the memory of all the prayers ... offered, and all the false hopes we had." I'm reminded of an earlier question vis-a-vis Richard Wagamese regarding the "new beginnings" which life offers, and when these might finally run out. I wonder if hope works the same way. Disappointed or not, each day I find myself hoping for better. But if the hope runs out before the good things arrive-- well, let's just say I'm not optimistic about what that world is going to look like.
I'm supposed to be going out tonight. A friend and I have been "co-planning" a party to be held at his place for some time now, and I'm just not sure that I have the energy to go this evening. But I know that I should go. And that there is no excuse to sit at home for one second while true love is still out there, somewhere.
Every time I think of a woman coming into my life, I think of mornings spent in bistros and cafes, afternoons spent browsing curiosity shops, and formal evenings at art events or wine and conversation at home. These are things to which I almost never treat myself: and, if I do, it sometimes feels good, but never right. My happiness, somehow, is wasted on me; in order to be truly effective, it should be doing something for somebody else. It should be helping somebody else to feel good.
I think one of the most profoundly isolating things that I have had to deal with over the last few years is the lack of intimacy in the morning. Being alone in the evening gives me time to read or listen to music and also to hope that tomorrow will be better. Waking up alone, eating alone, watching the news alone serves only as a reminder of this day being just like every other day. That's really starting to wear on me.
I'm not sure how to find the way out. I can't help but believe -- but hope -- that there is a way out. C. S. Lewis says, "what chokes every prayer and every hope is the memory of all the prayers ... offered, and all the false hopes we had." I'm reminded of an earlier question vis-a-vis Richard Wagamese regarding the "new beginnings" which life offers, and when these might finally run out. I wonder if hope works the same way. Disappointed or not, each day I find myself hoping for better. But if the hope runs out before the good things arrive-- well, let's just say I'm not optimistic about what that world is going to look like.
I'm supposed to be going out tonight. A friend and I have been "co-planning" a party to be held at his place for some time now, and I'm just not sure that I have the energy to go this evening. But I know that I should go. And that there is no excuse to sit at home for one second while true love is still out there, somewhere.