Life is a beach.


Ho hum, feeling very annoyed with myself this morning due to an unrestrained  alcoholic intake last night.  No excuses, just utter lack of will power on my part, an empty evening, and the lingering vestiges of a meal unhappily spent with brother and mother, a potent mix for disharmony. As is par for the course, I am the ‘mopper up’.  It is not an easy task, soothing hurts that have existed for a handful of decades, and I practice detachment as best as I can.  It is no accident that on return to my cave, I immerse myself in digital detachment, and paint myself a beach.

The sea , and the beach are visual metaphors of detachment.  When I went swimming last week , I had the mindset of Virginia Woolf before she drowned herself, I imagine.  I was walking into oblivion, trying to separate myself from the pain of existence.  Fortunately my pain is manageable, the tragedy is when it becomes unbearable for anyone.

Here is my understanding of sea and sand and losing myself. For a moment or two.



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