I’m becoming more and more divorced from what used to give me joy, energy. No building in the garage, no garden, no beautiful back yard ambience. The vitality that occasionally pulsed in my heart preceded and followed by a sparks of ideas, these are rare. I just don’t seem to care anymore; I am, in fact, a mere caretaker of my circumstances. Feed by beautiful animals, do dishes, catch some gem of a streaming movie. Spending time with Sandi, that helps me to forget all this for the most part, but is filler. Not momentum, just being alive space without depression.
Of one thing, I am certain, that writing is the way into value. So many ideas float through the tunnels of my Junction mindset. This depression sinks deeper into my being; I have to write. That pat on the back, the “that’s really good, keep writing,” comments are gone. What I write and send to Sandi result in an inept “Yeah, I read it” response. I need more than that. I need encouragement. None comes from any corner. So, my working theory, painful as it is, must control the way — write for myself, and that is downright lonely. But, it’s also satisfying. It gives me a sense that I’m above the bland fray providing a degree of self-worth. God, I really need that right now.
