So much of it is. And I suppose the secret of contentment is navigating it with something like acceptance. I like the order of it, the routinous doing of the usual, the habitual though aware all the time of a part of me that wants to rebel, to run, to throw it all in. I walk the same streets, the same promenade, I do the washing and the cleaning on the same days each week. Routine holds me in place but it also imprisons me. Don’t you feel that? Work is the same. I need order. I need to know what I am to do each day. I need to know that I can solve it. Which I don’t always. Know, that is. I solve each one, each challenge, at least to the best of my ability but even in that, even in that thrill of the solving there is the humdrum waiting in the wings. That, is that all there is? So be it.

I didn’t know depression could be like that. He writes about it so powerfully. I couldn’t listen to it all, it was too much in one sitting. Funny how what I listen to colours the work that I am doing. And when I return to the work I remember the sounds, the voices, the words.

Time to work. Gentle work today. I want to write about what sewing means to me. Like he did. Delving. There is more to unravel, I think.