Thoughts From the Cave.

Today has been one of those dolorous days. The wind roared, the rain spat, the sky glowered, my rugby team failed to deliver its promise, Act 1 Scenes 1-4 of The Cursed Child proved to be so weakly written as to be almost unreadable, and nobody talked to me.

Such days are becoming commonplace now. The great hall of the mind, once a place of light and energy, has become a dull, cold cavern where even the shadows on the granite walls have lost the will to dance. The fires have all gone out, you see, and only frigid stones are left to sit on.

Self pity. Hate it. Actually, it isn’t self pity. I know who I am, I know what I am, I know how I got here, I regret nothing. All those thoughts, all those actions, all those adventures, all those successes, all those failures, all the acceptances and rejections, all things done and not done, everything said and not said, have led me here. That’s how life works. No blame attaches to anything or anybody, not even me. The road is just the road. You change it if you can; you accept it if you can’t. You keep walking with neither hope nor despair, for those two imposters are equally worthless companions. There are only actions, consequences, and the vagaries of uncontrollable fortune.

So why am I throwing these words onto the page of a blog, there to be read and discarded by half a dozen nameless, faceless fellow mortals scattered around the world like six random grains of sand in the Saharan wilderness? Because I’m tired of hearing them echo from the walls, that’s all.

Time for self-medication and some entertainment.

(Tonight’s episode of House was pretty good. I rather thought Cutthroat Bitch would be back. She was far too interesting a character to be cast into the void for ever. It's just a pity that she didn't look half so attractive when she was heavily made up for a dinner date with Wilson than she did when she was wearing a white coat, working sneakily to prove her worth, and bitching like a female pit bull with toothache.)