Diary Tuesday 20 March 2012

The heat was bad, we did not receive enough rain, so I
promised myself I would love autumn and winter this
year. Yet now that the cold is in the air I am filled with
such a nagging sadness and feeling of longing – I am so
untrue to myself, can’t keep the focus on the advantages
of cool while overpowered by a feeling of loss and lament.

The sadness is in the air, around me, all over, in the weather
now how do I change the sadness to an inner feeling that I can
conquer and reject? How does one describe such an absolutely
irrational, stupid feeling? Why does it exist? I’m a town dweller,
weather should mean little - except for gardening. Why should it
feel so awful and why don’t I have control of this?

Autumn

My Changing Story

*
Celebrated new shining ideas and happiness in
my changing life story by eating in a restaurant
although the new-found insight keeps me safe
from anxiety when pain clamps down on my
mind, my thoughts are scattering

Swelling and pressure in my head impedes capacity
for rational argument and setting priorities, though
content in my misery, it is a miserable experience
I had hoped that quiet acceptance of the world
as is would lift the allergy

Yet such is not the case, my guess is it still fulfils a
purpose, I should align with it, eschew French fries
and sausages – I sigh, so little I can eat without
consequences making it impossible to carry on
my trivial duties, the result is

I start dabbling with prosody and limericks, practice
conjuring visions of a new reality in which I can eat
anything and remain symptom-free, my eyelids are
growing heavy, neck stiffening, life becomes boring
forcing me to start looking for

Excitement and adventure, fantasy and spiritual truth
to break free from physical reality, the allergy cripples
me, I cannot start activity, I wish it were psychosomatic
complaint that goes away with age, but no, it is just as
debilitating as before

Physical illness entails more than fear for dark deeds of
yesteryear, frustration and boredom stop me from com-
pleting long-term jobs and start short-term duties, I am
still looking for a satisfactory reason for my suffering,
spiritual gurus say it is self-chosen

It implies that I am a masochist, enjoying misery as much
as Pratchett’s Discworld characters, as long as I can keep
reading, I’ll survive the depression engendered by inability
to execute routine jobs with competence, I suppose this
keeps me writing

Whereas all my fellow-soldiers in the trenches created by
criminal bureaucracy and strangling regulations are happy
and content to do repetitive jobs, I might have been as
complacent as they seem to be if I could remain tethered
to administrative reality…
*