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Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Life Is What You Live
I don't mean to bring you down. Neither am I flinging flags or flairs, expecting intervention. Maybe all I'm doing is adding a little shade to this portrait that I'm painting on these insubstantial pages here.
I try to seldom write about these darker feelings that come over me. A man is not supposed to talk like this. But I'm in the process of fitting these pieces into the jigsaw of my life, trying to put them in their proper place alongside all the other things. So why not lay them out?
A doctor once encouraged me to read Scott Peck's The Road Less Traveled, and I did. I would have argued with the author then that life was not at all that difficult; but I was living on Prozac at the time, and I had no feelings of my own. My brain was otherwise engaged doing a mindless jitterbug.
I've long since weaned myself from happy pills, and, boy, do I have feelings now. Still, I wouldn't say that life is difficult.
Life is tragic.
What do you do? You get up out of bed each morning and follow the rituals you've set up to carry you through the day until night and sleep arrive again. If you take the time to stop and think, you try to find some sense in it. You reach with baby hands to grab and hold onto any faith and hope you can, but your touch only meets with empty air.
And you just keep going.