False start, more later

I had, in my intent for the evening, a period of writing where I would produce another entry for the blog. Before that, however, there would be some time devoted to unpacking the last large box of my things that had been in the kitchen for a week.

I began the unpacking. Paper, paper paper, dish, paper, dish, bowl, paper…”What’s this?” I asked myself. “Oh, there they are.”

My plaques and things also were in the box, which turned out to be a hodgepodge of random stuff. I unwrapped each one and set them all down on the dining room table.

Unfortunately they set off a deluge of memories, reflections, etc., which spread throughout my whole disposition, leaving me in this sort of brooding melancholy about past assignments, regrets, missed opportunities and the general state of things.

So, rather than get into all of that, I’ve decided to sleep on it and try again tomorrow. On the one hand there is the writer’s honesty to consider—the fact that readers are a fan of a writer’s particular articulated perspective; however, there is also a reader’s tolerance for moody crap.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in a good place, I don’t regret my day-to-day. There’s just a lot about friends, war, God, love and the brokenness of man that kicks the sh*t out of me from time to time.

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