What a luxury it is to sit in the comfort of my own home and put all of the goodness I experience on a daily basis in a box to the side and feel, well, blue.
Summer is part of it. The warmer weather always saps my energy, even if it's not the kind of heat that makes me burst into flame when I stick my head out the door. Day after day goes by, not enough accomplished. My scrapbooking is almost at a standstill, and really, there's too much to do for that to remain true. The neighbors next door moved out, and somehow, though I was not close to them, every time I see the absence of potted Summer flowers by their front door, I feel sad.
I feel self-indulgent, lazy, spoiled like rotten fruit forgotten on some park bench somewhere.
I'm also feeling a good deal useless these days. I have plenty to do, yet none of it earns money, and I seem to be on some sort of holding pattern. I want to write, but everything that even pops into my mind feels dull, lacking the luster I always used to feel for the mere act of putting words one right after another on paper.
I'm not journaling much. Life goes by without my marking it very well, and that bothers me because it's the act of remembering, of assigning importance to the details of every day, that makes life meaningful.
Of course, all of this would be a great deal easier if I weren't in pain almost constantly from stubborn tendinitis in my writing arm and shoulder.
So many complaints, when I should be jumping for joy that I have plenty to eat, a comfy place to sleep, the lovely warmth of a man who loves me even when I'm not at my best.
Like today.
Copyright 2008 Melissa LaFavers