It seems I’m still not done. What I thought would take a year, took a week. What I thought would take a week took a month and what I thought would take a month has taken well over. This process is a process. I’m not fond of processes. I’m fond of finality, finish, complete, destination and done.
I never enjoyed the journey and as a result, I’ve enjoyed very little. Little in life is finality. Most in life is change. In fact, the only constant, other than God, that I’m aware of, is a change. Bah! Miserable.
Misery, a not new and most unwelcome friend. He visits often. More often than I’d like and much more often than I care to admit. Tenacious bugger. He’s not done either.
Talk to me in ten minutes and I’ll speak of hope and optimism and growth and other nonsense. Talk to me now and I’ll tell you of pain. Enduring, everlasting pain. The pain that always was and the pain that always will be. My kind of pain. The kind of pain that my head advertises as eternal. The kind pain that doesn’t really exist. Grief, just grief.
I’ve heard there is one reliever of pain that is 100% effective 100% of the time and that’s time. Time I have too much of. Time I never have enough of. Time that lingers long. Time too, that's not done.
