Good Grief 350

More yew time.
I seem to be in a funny phase. Don’t laugh, I know it’s hard to separate one from the other.
It’s been a weird week having booked a couple of days off which have proved emotionally exhausting. I don’t recall planning to do this but it seems to have been an irritable rumble like an emotional form of IBS and the proverbial seems to have hit the fan.

It has made me realise that the working week allows for little else other than survival and keeping my head above water and it takes enough to recover from at weekends before starting all over again on Mondays without disturbing the dust, Miss Haversham.

This morning I got overwhelmed in the end (extra).
I was reading a tragedy, written from the heart and suffering of one I know well from before I knew him and yet I knew and lived with that part and live with it now as I hack into a mouldy rucksack with all the living present emotion that no longer has an object. I cried for him but I also cried for that timeless story of suffering that is repeated endlessly. I cried for his brokenness, for his huge efforts to bridge his way in the world, for his substance, his trials and his fall from grace and for my enduring love for him.

(I haven’t written this as well as I would like. I haven’t been able to convey even half of what all this evokes and barely know myself).

What to do with all of this?

Luckily I had to go out and I managed to look out across wide vistas and the dazzle and I headed home listening to this on the radio...
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rwFXR5ett6U
...and grateful for that enduring sense of ‘the still, sad music of humanity.’