Looking out at the light grey Ithaca sky. The sun was as distant as my troubles this week. Fine goods, wine and company allowed me a brief respite from a world I've ceased to enjoy. I take full responsibility for my actions and inaction's, but the lack of accountability in others brings my life constant turmoil. I don't know how this will play out. I don't have the money, nor the legal clout to truly fight, but I will try. I've allowed others to renege on their responsibilities, but it has reached a booking point. My apartment is nearly uninhabitable.
As look out the open window, my face gets cold, but it's pleasant. Just as a hot towel after a great meal, the cold invigorated me. Reminds me to feel. To mentally and physically push through perceived discomfort and enjoy life, even if the enjoyable parts are few.
I've been away for seven days and with the exception of one person and my kids, I haven't missed a thing. Tomorrow I will awake, most likely unrested, to the slam of a door. My eyelids will flicker and I'll listen for the birds that sing. I'll anticipate that chill. I'll listen for the churning of a coffee grinder, the rolling of an office chair or the faint sounds of a Bach concerto. I won't hear any of then, and like now, a single tear will fall and reality will set in. I'll wipe at it, push myself forward and face the day. Spending every second preparing to hide reality, so that s group of kids, who might never remember me later in life, will have an hour of escape. Deep in the recesses, I'll be in Ithaca or Wolfeboro or maybe running down a Brooklyn sidewalk and it will keep me going until the next time.
As look out the open window, my face gets cold, but it's pleasant. Just as a hot towel after a great meal, the cold invigorated me. Reminds me to feel. To mentally and physically push through perceived discomfort and enjoy life, even if the enjoyable parts are few.
I've been away for seven days and with the exception of one person and my kids, I haven't missed a thing. Tomorrow I will awake, most likely unrested, to the slam of a door. My eyelids will flicker and I'll listen for the birds that sing. I'll anticipate that chill. I'll listen for the churning of a coffee grinder, the rolling of an office chair or the faint sounds of a Bach concerto. I won't hear any of then, and like now, a single tear will fall and reality will set in. I'll wipe at it, push myself forward and face the day. Spending every second preparing to hide reality, so that s group of kids, who might never remember me later in life, will have an hour of escape. Deep in the recesses, I'll be in Ithaca or Wolfeboro or maybe running down a Brooklyn sidewalk and it will keep me going until the next time.
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