Life is war? Not exactly. Not at all, really. When I hear the stories of people who’ve been involved in actual battle or been bystanders or adjacent to horrible events (I’m thinking specifically about my French student who survived a terrorist attack by fleeing into the sea) I recognize how different from the drama of daily life this is and how unfair it actually is to complain about this life I’ve been blessed with. This is, however, not to say that there is no room for feeling sad or that the truth and energy behind those feelings can lead to hopelessness and even suicide. This is to say that both of these things are true, namely because of the fog that descends upon you when you’ve locked yourself into your own reality and the importance of that reality and the tiny and often nagging indicators of trouble within.
I live good.
I could live a great deal better. I could deal with things that bother me better if not for this fog of life that settles over me and makes me able to tolerate the daily routine and even come to appreciate it. The fog makes change feel bad. It makes me react negatively to slights by my kids and it allows me to settle into ruts that, frankly, are destructive in every possible way. Lately I’ve been letting work gather like dust upon my office floor. There is no rhyme or reason to this other than this is what I do when I am here. My partner has been working hard to change that–fighting against the culture of a household that is dedicated to leisure and the pursuit of sameness at all costs.
I need to choose what I want my life to be and have the courage to generate the energy to break free of the Fog. I need to get up and get moving and get myself right. I am getting too old for this shit.