Should I talk about the lovely little dog I met in the pet shop? She wasn’t for sale or anything as tawdry as that; she was a 7-month-old little lady mongrel from a rescue centre who had managed to acquire two excellent humans, both of whom were clearly devoted to her. Well, that’s about the whole of the story, really, except to say that when I wished her a long and happy life it did occur to me to wonder how devastated the two excellent humans might be when it’s baby’s time to leave them.
Should I talk about seeing the girl from Ipanema in Ashbourne Co-op? Better not.
Should I talk about why the difficulties being experienced by a troubled person should be viewed in terms of the person, not the perceived degree of difficulty as recorded on the tram line scale? Too long and too serious for a person afflicted with chronic apathy.
For that’s the way of things at the moment: apathy, anxiety, and mild depression rule and I’m not managing to shake them off. I could offer several reasons in my defence (of varying degrees of difficulty as recorded on said tram line scale) but I think the core of it lies with a simple fact:
I’m continually conscious of there being a big empty hole somewhere inside of me that needs filling with something, but I don’t know what. None of the standard solutions fit the bill. I think it might have something to do with having so far failed in a lifetime (to date) of searching for the Grail. And I don’t know whether it even exists.