February 25, 2016

Torn over whether I should be ashamed at the way I allow exterior things to determine my course, or furious with the world for its perversity in maiming those things so predictably, so gratuitously. Whole days go by in which not one single thing goes well, and in which several things go worse than anyone could have expected. I am not the variable, but the victim. I do let myriads go, but after a certain point it is not well to let the universe think it is doing justly, or even sanely. All bullies must at last be confronted, and if I knew how to confront this one– beyond roaring under my own roof like a speared bull-- I would do it.