Succor

I began to write about the horrors of last night, but I deleted it all just in time.  Who gives a shit?  Really, if anyone did, I would not be in bed alone suffering from such things.  This morning with the rainy light and the strong coffee, I can think of many contributing factors to the night's horror.  I had dinner with two friends whose mother just passed away.  They were full of that.  I have another birthday rapidly approaching.  I can't seem to find any happiness.  My body is so beat up that I have trouble standing up and I am beginning to feel the frailty of the body more sharply.  Many of my peers are in terrible shape.  I do not envy them their lives, but they do not wake up alone in the dark.  I know, I know.  But I did not feel any part the hero last night.  All heroics were gone.  All that was left. . . .

But I said I wouldn't talk about it.  Truly, it is just to cheer you up, to make you feel better that you do not suffer such things.  People need to feel some smugness once in a while.  I once had a "friend" tell me, "Well. . . you got what you wanted, right?"  I have often wished for people to get what they want.  But it is never the getting what you want part but the fact that what you want excludes so many other things.

"But I want it all," I thought to myself.

Last night's horrors linger on.  I can't seem to shake them in the drizzly morning light.  I am, I fear, entering one of those periods of catatonia again.

Perhaps the cat suffers from it, too.  She will not leave me alone.  She bumps me and licks me and bites me and complains even more than usual.  She wants relief, I guess, and more.  I am beginning to think that the cat suffers from some existential horrors, too.  There must be an empty void that needs filling.  She wants succoring.

Don't we all.