I’m all right. Feeling like my year of rejection is coming true, but as I said to DH just now, I’m no longer depressed, I’m not taking any medication and I feel ok. I’m not being paid to think so I’m not. That’s ok too, right now. Not sure where this leads me. Not very creative, nor wanting to be. I’m painting the interior of the house. It’s cathartic, and much like writing a thesis. There’s a truckload of hard yakka that goes into the built structure, then a coating of beautiful clean white paint to cover the missteps and workings. You can sometimes see the awkward bits and the paint drips but mainly it’s fine. White, neat, finished.
Painting is a shit job, but I have the time and inclination to do it. Stops me feeling.
A friend of mine, whom I’ve not known well nor very long, finally snapped on the weekend. Her journey mirrors mine, in that we each did something big and good and profound and inspirational and challenging and ambitious. But like me she has suffered a fall from the heights. But she has fallen a little further. And I worry about her constantly and hope she is safe and getting the help and care she needs.
And I think, there but for my grit go I. And grit I do have. And bloody mindedness. And resilience. So I’m not being paid to think. The world’s loss, I reckon. I have a room of my own; I have an idea for a concert and an idea for a cabaret. But I am not going to do that right now. Now: I’m watching Netflix and preparing for Xmas.
And also now, I paint.