Unexpected anger as I slap down a book I'd rather be retreating into, all the more firmly and obliviously ensconced in the linear labyrinth of text. Not knowing what to do with it, the anger, purse my lips and try to let it hover, around me, without feeling the need to put in anywhere. Most particularly not on the kid, as always, kids being kids and therefor in a near permanent state of doing something that might be construed as deserving of anger. But then again, it occurs to me, seeing immediately where the trend of this line of thought tends to skew, better to not let it land on myself either, not the least of it because it amounts to nearly the same thing (the kid, being a kid and therefor sensitive, acutely aware of whatever lash I might lay out against my own back). But mainly, realizing it does not have to be particularly complicated or philosophical, not wanting it on either of us, the same reason for both, because we do not deserve, and it does us some little harm and absolutely no good.
And with a heavy sigh, the thing making a familiar shift into deep and deeply held sadness, I think, five fucking years on the therapists couch, refusing the whole time to ever go prone on the thing, rather always sitting upright. And that better than five years ago, and still I am having to drag up these utterly obvious realizations, the fact that it hurts when I do this is a sufficient justification to stop doing it.
Thus with the beginning of the intermittent new shit, I guess, while I continue to reconstruct the archives of the defunct Spirit of Salt weblog in this all but untrafficked, hastily erected temple of badly managed commerce. Thinking, I deliberately elected to skive yesterday's song of the day to avoid starting a new year writing this kind of shit, this personal depression existential psychology shit, but there it is.
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