I write this without being maudlin. I type from a place of contemplation, not agony.
Almost nine months and 299 blog posts ago I restarted this blog as a form of post-stroke therapy. That was early last summer.
Since then I have survived and thrived, crashed and rebuilt, anticipated and endured. I have explored a strange new landscape of life and fought hard to find the holy grail of my existence. I have been hopeful and hopeless and have had my share of what-the-fuck moments.
Now it is the dead of winter. Those experiences seem distant, washed out like old film negatives left in the sun. Even the vivid dreams that plagued me for much of last year feel foreign, as if they happened to someone else.
I am calmer now. I would say this is a good thing, Martha Stewart, but that's not the truth.
This is a dull calm. Days that felt like whipcracks just a month ago now crawl with the speed of treacle. I find it difficult to care much about anything. Anticipation? A ridiculous notion. There is nothing to anticipate. A day is something to endure, not relish.
Not a good thing, no.
The good thing: I've focused my energies on ... focusing in a different direction. Figuring out the depths and the strengths needed to conquer that journey. It helps tamp the fever of bad habits, both desired and detested. It's not happy work — I'd rather be watching movies and enjoying the quiet of a friend's company — but it has a purpose.
I accept the way I feel. These are my emotions. If I dwell on them I will drive myself crazy. There's nothing constructive in that.
I'm facing reality and the purpose of the moment. No fixation on the past. No thinking of the future. What's going to happen? I have no fucking idea. I'm done asking those sorts of questions. I was already asking too many, anyway.
The purpose of the moment. It's a shift from what I was doing, and that means my life will never be the same. In some ways, that's a good thing.