depression

Poem for today, Sunday, football on the telly , though that is not the suffering that I am feeling right now. I need to kick start myself out of a calamitous spiral which will end in tears, although I seldom cry, my tears are nearly always dry. I hope you read the poem, and go back over it. It is really quite marvellous in an understated wry sort of a way. I don’t know much about Auden, but this poem suggests a similar outlook on life to myself, rather too realist to be comfortable. As T S Eliot said ‘Humankind cannot bear too much reality’. I want to bury myself in some worthwhile pursuit to hide from a world that overwhelms and disappoints. My problem is lack of applicaton. I am a flibbertygibbit. I flit from one thing to another without becoming adept enough to be pleased with any outcome. Ahh well, I shall retreat to the bookshelf, to the solace of the poets, to the oblivion of the novelist.

Enjoy the week ahead, and let me know how you manage reality.

Today is a day that I need help. So I shall be entering a fictitious world of Anne Enright’s ‘Forgotten Waltz’ mainly in order to have read it before tomorrows book group. Or maybe I shall indulge in some heavy housework to stave off the onslaught of a gathering cloud of melancholy. Most likely I will fall back onto the rituals of the days requirements of me and move through it as through a thick smog, lacking clarity, lacking any sort of view. It has been threatening for some time, but I am full of wily strategies to complicate and divert it. Perhaps it is more persistent than I imagined, or hoped. Anyway, I know it is temporal. like the clouds that I watch skittishly dancing across a beautiful blue sky. Joy in small things. I shall attempt the advice above and hold my head high, alert at all times. Joy in small things.