Moods

Originally Posted Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Cold, gray, me out of synch.  The sidewalks have been more consistent than I.  Moods.  Days of happiness, days of melancholy.  Then. . . days of the dead and nothingness.  Those are the worst, worse than depression.  Wholesale blankness.  Perhaps, I think, the grayness becomes my mood, though, the cold and gray and I can become one.  A quiet desperation.  Internal chemistry. 

Searching for succor, the chocolate is cheap, the pastries of poor quality.  I'll make a roast, perhaps, using the Romertopf, sweetening it with carrots and onions and red wine.  The weather is calling for such hearty/hardy things to anchor us, to keep us grounded rather than spiraling out of control. 

I can't find the right book but the music is steady and the bed seems fine.  I shall change the comforter, perhaps, and maybe buy some new pillows.  Silly external things.  First we make the environment, then. . . .

Surely it is the knee, or the lack thereof.  I haven't been active enough to sweat.  That has always been my medicine, my tool for realignment.  Cars seem to run better if you take them onto the highway and drive them as fast as they will go for a bit.  All the parts just fall into place. 

Or blow up. 

It is better one way or the other.  Limping along on five cylinders and bad valves is no way to go. 

"It was a time of quiet and waiting. . . ."