Good Grief 185

Time and habitation
I'm not sure I can be arsed to write much but I'm a bit pissed off with time.
I'm beginning to think that taking any photos is pointless - what am I recording?
My daily nominal existence ...
The fact that I got up ... eventually ... and did something ....
My frequent retreats into the past that is the only habitation that I have that feels connected to anything ...
My attempts to be in the moment and see the beauty of the day ....
My relationship with rocks and stones and trees and earth's diurnal course ....
I listened to Tara Brach this morning, referencing John o'Donoghue and inhabiting the inner wilderness and awareness of the body.
I'm pretty sick of it frankly, the inner wilderness is the only habitation I seem to have.
Four years of this and all that went before and all before that. I thought there was a bit of lift happening but it seems to have evaporated. The frustration at my inability to effect change.
On Friday, at work, I could hear a little girl playing in the dolls house in the waiting area outside my room. I could hear her walk away and then her stompy little feet marching to the door...a knocking...and then 'oh, hello, it's you, how lovely, do come in... Would you like some tea and we could sing songs, if you would like to'. I cried for those lost songs of innocence and hope for the future.
I'm worn out at work and the thought of another Monday here already feels a tad overwhelming, not that it makes any difference, the weeks grind on, but I feel shit at it at the moment.
On a positive note I've baked my beetroot for some kind of beetroot and goat's cheese tarte tatin  to savour in the week if I get round to it ... I'll report back ...