At the moment, each day washes over me. I’d like to say I’m reborn but it’s like I’m ageing faster than I can comprehend the aftershock of another passing year.
I want to stop work — in case it’s not already obvious. It’s not a case of having had enough of the interminable grind but, instead, I want to once again step into my shadow and ask a more serious question than (and this isn’t the only one):
“How the hell do I make sense of (all) this?”
Always the money — or so it seems.
One day, I’ll be able to journey without the baggage of knowing, morally or otherwise, that I’ve got to provide that or I’m on someone’s payroll.
But, hey, it’s Friday and in these parts between my wife and I, that’s something to celebrate in the sense that at least come day’s end we can put down our tools until Monday comes rushing in again.
PS. As I type this I’m listening to the album Sometimes by Goldmund. Bliss.