Looking back over the last year or so, I realize how I slowly, but surely withdrew, shut down, lost interest, raged.   Yes, yes, it was all reasonable, diagnosed, to be expected.  The wallowing in my own misery was fine, okay; no shame in it; understandable…           Yadda yadda yadda…

Please do not rub my back again.  I really do not like being touched.   Please stop being empathetic.  Expect me to handle it, damn it!  Expect more of me.  Expect me to rise!        Rise, rise, rise.

People sicken.  People die.   Hearts break. Fear of more heartbreak engulfs,  stifles.         Yes, yes, yes.

People age.  Employers hire and fire, with impunity.                                                            Rage, rage, rage.

“That’s life, Kid.”  “This too shall pass.”   Stop wasting time:  Get back in the game!     Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!

Finally, at last,  I tire of it – the misery.   I choose to turn my head to the garden, the sky,  the giggle of my grands, good food, books;  my cute little Mini with its pink fuzzy dice and its magic “sport” button.

Ye writers have worked your magic; sustained me through my personal exile by merely continuing your personal ventures.  Thank you.   Me thinks I am set to  get back to the tale twisting in my brain; to put pen to paper,  keyboard to screen.

“Huzzah!”,  says the young script writer with whom I work daily.                              “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”


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