Is a puzzlement.
I'm tired of complaining, of being buffeted by fears, of overestimating the scale of my personal suffering, of operating in such profoundly mauvaise foi. But being indisciminately hard on myself is not, at least according to my analyst, going to help me create a better life. The red crepe myrtles blooming outside look so banal. The delicious flowers--magnolias, gardenias, azaleas, wisteria--all bloom early, leaving only scentless sun-hardy flowers to pick over the following months. The sun and dust have begun to scorch the leaves and dull their green. I'm going to lift weights now.