Fragmentary. It could almost be a noun like reliquary (container or shrine in which sacred relics are kept). A container or shrine in which fragmented thoughts are kept.
A sense of futility this morning.
Achilles tendon strained. Walking is a touch difficult. An excessive love of sport marked by a largely undistinguished career (highlight probably that of being in top 50 ranked epée fencers in Norway).
Kyiv under siege. Civilians dying, without doubt.
The business O works for has software developers in Kyiv. They have decided to stay and have been training with their assault rifles.
The realisation that a lot of news coverage of the crisis is racist, and that non-European refugees are being discriminated against (verified footage of Africans not being allowed to board trains from Ukraine to Poland). I feel like a racist for calling my minor problems First World problems.
Terminology is an issue when we try to abbreviate thoughts into social-media-friendly phrases. Soundbites are just that.
Meaningless adverts for things we don’t really need. On any medium.
The irrelevance of meteorological spring.
The holes in the garden around the builders’ digger filling with rain.
The cat confused because the cat flap is locked so she doesn’t fall out of the cat flap into the holes.
I cried when I watched Longshot last night when I wouldn’t sleep because climbing the stairs was too difficult, because I wanted the injury to disappear, because my irrational mind was telling me that staying awake would mend it. The sadness at the storyline of the film being too good to be true. Too good in all ways.
A paper cut on the middle finger of my left hand. That’s the finger I use for the scroll button on my mouse (I have used my left hand for my mouse ever since I developed fencer’s elbow in Norway and started fencing left-handed so I didn’t have to stop) because it lets me scroll about 4 lines more than using my left index finger. Biology, body mechanics. It all comes back to that.
A dream about rare hardback books, and me buying one although the front cover was almost entirely detached. I don’t know what the book was, but the colour of its linen was the same pale blue of my old car (sitting on next door’s drive right now).
I will dredge up some hope from somewhere. I always do. I will dredge up dreams of playing sport (my late osteopath from my life before Norway always said that visualisations like that are healing). I will also visualise sun like we had yesterday afternoon.
I find it impossible to write these blogposts without having a break – the mind wanders
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 17