There’s so much grief in it, this business of living, of trying to find a path, an existence that is worthy, worthwhile, useful and true. Sometimes it utterly floors me. Yesterday afternoon was a weeping one. I haven’t had one of those for some time. When we lived in Cambridge he would often come back from work and I’d be a heap on the bed. But I pick myself up, I always have and begin again. As I am doing now.
I woke up saying it. I try to remember and know that if I don’t write it down instantly it will go, like smoke. I don’t know what it refers to, that post sleeping world is a liminal one. A magical one.
My laptop is playing and it agitates and unnerves me. I want to throw it all up and retreat. Can’t it be simple, this living thing? Can’t it be something true?
