Being Made of Layers.

I’ve mentioned here before that since I started this blog in 2010 I’ve written enough words to fill eight or nine sizeable novels. I’ve also asked the question: why didn’t I just write eight or nine novels?

The answer is simple enough: there are about five different people writing my blog posts, and how consistent would a novel be if five different people were engaged to write it? It isn’t as though I can control them so they have one novel each to write. They come and go in their own time. My Dr Jekyll doesn’t have just one Mr Hyde adding layers to his persona, he has about four. (Which immediately invites the query: could anybody trust me with their affection? The answer is far from clear cut, but the complication is one of the reasons why I no longer go out of my way to seek anybody’s affection.)

And why doesn’t Trump push the big red button which he so loves threatening to do, and then I would have something different to write about for a change, something other than me. My life is far too full of me at the moment. All of them.

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So how was today in the Shire? Calm, mostly sunny, a little chilly in the shade, and largely devoid of people apart from the group of ramblers who reminded me of why I never engage in group activities. I spent three hours of it dealing with a badly overgrown hedge armed only with a hedge trimmer, loppers, and a chain saw. It felt almost like being human (as far as I know.) Had the clocks not reverted to GMT today, I would only have spent two.

Yesterday I met a husky/border collie cross. He was very energetic, very friendly, and possessed of a soft and luxuriously thick coat which might once have belonged to a piebald polar bear. Such encounters force me to admit that this theatre of the absurd which masquerades as life to us HSPs can sometimes provide the odd fleeting moment of worth.

And did I ever mention that I used to have an interesting effect on street lights? They sometimes used to go off temporarily when I walked underneath them.

What I know I didn’t mention is that somebody told me recently that I am ‘chosen.’ Isn’t that exciting? (It wasn’t the llama, it wasn’t God, it wasn’t a disembodied voice emanating from the ether, and it wasn’t a little bee buzzing around inside my head. Seems I might be sane after all. Oh, and it wasn’t a gypsy palm reader or spiritualist medium either.) Can’t wait to find out what I'm chosen for. My best guess is still that one day I might be chased to the burning mill by rustic types brandishing pitchforks, but we'll see.