Today has been too full.
At work, report after report of death, misery, and need. December is the fullest monthof this, historically, but this one, and this day, has been the worst. I do what I can. We do what we can. Enough of that.
Time is a slippery thing. Privately, I have been thinking about just cutting out from my life all the creative things, because there’s an undercurrent, a feeling, that giving so much of that slippery time (strange how that chimes with my acupuncturist saying my pulses are slippery) to these what often seem futile endeavours is damaging me and my family. Nonsense, M says; nonsense, you might say. On reflection, I can’t stop, because, ultimately, words, and being creative, are my salvation. But I think the feeling is understandable.
Enough of all that. There are better things ahead.
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