Yesterday was a vibrant, sunny, glorious day. This morning, the skies are grey, the streets are wet and the wind howls furiously. This stormy weather corresponds to my mood.
I went out to the big city last night with a girlfriend. I was designated drinker, which I feel this morning even though I didn't grossly overdo it.
With the good old common sense only friends can have, she pointed out to me the hopelessness of a quest I've embarked upon. It unleashed a whirlwind of thoughts.
My father used to quote: "Il n'est pas nécessaire d'espérer pour entreprendre, ni de réussir pour persévérer." But my father was a hopeless idealist. I strive to be a realist. The hereditary potential to dream is only too strong in my veins.
So my head is full of questions, this morning. Realistic questions. Like what the f are you doing Bridge? What the h do you really want? I will not censure myself, and there will be no right and wrong answers. But I want to know exactly what I'm about and no matter what my actions afterwards, they will be done with both eyes wide open and with full purpose.
Today, I will go down to my airy, soft pink basement. I will set out a puzzle on the large table. I will plug Mylene Farmer in the background, and turn some lights on, for the sky is so dark. And in the company of a few friendly spiders, of a few dead ones, and one or two curled up cats, I will concentrate on the pointless and satisfying task, and listen to the wind and the rain, and, nursing endless coffees, try to clarify my own head and heart.
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