Feeling melancholy on Labor Day

Face Backwords

Feeling melancholy tonight on Labor Day. That end-of-the-summer feeling. That sort of dread you feel when you live on the streets and you feel Winter looming towards you.

It was a weird summer for me. The Summer of 2018. It was like I had to deal with an Endless series of problems. Getting my feral cats fixed. Moving hundreds of boxes of my stuff from one storage space to another. My father dying. . . One thing after another. Even as I tried to make a point of savoring the summer months, the great weather, the lap of luxury.

Been flashing with unexpected bursts of anger all evening. Over the little things. “The shoelace that snaps when there’s no time.” I suppose it’s a cumulative affect of all the dissatisfaction I feel about my daily life. (NOW I’VE GOT THIS ANNOYING STATIC COMING FROM THE RADIO ON MY HEADPHONES — AAAIIGGHHHH!!!!)

Now I’m sipping on my third beer of the evening and I’m finally starting to relax. It’ll probably smooth out into a sweet evening after all. Sometimes all it takes is a good song coming on the radio to change my mood (I’m told I’m “mercurial”), and realizing it’s Friday night — the most magical hours on the calendar — and the beginning of a three-day weekend, so maybe the rest of humanity (the fucks) will take a deep breath and relax along with me and celebrate the holiday (Labor Day??) and celebrate our lives.

What else? My eyesight has been bothering me again. It’s like I can feel my eyes wearing out on me. I’ve kind of reconciled myself to the fact that my eyeballs are probably my Achille’s Heel. They’ll probably burn out before the rest of my organs are ready for the scrap heap. Such is life as a human being.

Earlier I thought to myself: “I’m one of the loneliest people in the world. That’s just how I roll.” The sentiment was probably just an over-statement — me being melodramatic. There are probably a lot of people even lonelier than me. But that was how I was actually feeling at that particular moment in time and space.

Some people might think it odd how I muse in public and make personal comments about my life and then broadcast them out to total strangers (hi there). And maybe it is odd. But that’s basically what I’ve been doing for the last 40 years. Some people call it creating “art” for lack of a better word. Or maybe it’s just psychobabble. But that’s just how I roll. And it’s probably too late to change.



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