Good Grief 285

I don't know what possessed me today other than a sense of driving as a form of 'self-medication'. There's something about getting in the van and just going, the process of driving is sort of numbing. There's nothing else to be done and you end up doing something at least, going somewhere and there is the possibility that the momentum, the change of scene, the process itself, might just shift the fog, the crippling slough, the profound deadness of the heart that struggles to beat.

I don't begin to understand why these periods sweep in. Last weekend wasn't too bad and yet the weather was pretty dire. There seems to be no obvious patterns. The week had been hard and I was aware of the crawl to the finish line. It was a long day and I was conscious of absorbing everything and then as soon as the working day ended I couldn't stop crying - as I left work, as I drove home, at home and as I tried to sleep. So this morning I had a plan and was even prepared to stop overnight. But as I drove nothing shifted. When I stopped I walked and was momentarily buoyed to see these Grass of Parnassus but soon sunk back and decided to just get back home. Nine hours later I am home. A bloody long way for a photo of some flowers. Now that's a pilgrimage. A pointless pilgrimage in a blank wilderness, with no message, no outcome, no sense of spiritual satisfaction. Just a meaningless, tiring journey to somewhere and back and again.