It isn’t always easy doing the things we have to do.
Unless it’s one of those happy occasions, as rare as they may be,
when the thing we have to do, is something we want to do.
But whether we want to or not, we do these things anyway.
Because we have to.
That’s just the way life is.
And the way life is…
is mostly rote.
And, to me, that’s a good thing.
Meaning, we can go through much of life, with all its mundane repetition,
the daily teeth brushing, the daily driving to and fro the place of employment,
the long-past-its-shelf-life commitment (of work, of love, of Amazon…),
the multitudinous etceteras,
without having to focus too hard on them.
We just do them, all these things we aren’t too particularly fond of doing,
I wrote a new book.
Finished it up about four months ago.
It’s called Sorrow.
Gonna try and publish it traditionally.
The long way.
Though I’m not sure if I have the patience for it.
Or the time.
Anyway, the book’s working thesis/blurb goes something like this:
A disillusioned aging white male forsakes all humanity, begins identifying as an it, and changes its name to Sorrow, just as its white son learns his Black girlfriend is pregnant and you begin a murderous rampage targeting interracial couples just like them.
Yeah, sounds pretty bleak, right?
I guess it kind of is.
But, in a strange way, it’s also kind of hopeful.
In its regression, its salvation really, Sorrow discovers a way to escape the pitfalls of reality, or what it calls the Realm of Morose, into the boundless expanse of time, space, and possibilities of its unconsciousness, or what it calls the Realm of the Divine.
It does this in a Jungian, Active Imagination kind of way.
And with the magic of the written word.
While I personally have never been able to make the transition to the Realm of the Divine quite as easily and seamlessly as Sorrow learns to do, I do occasionally find my escape through those aforementioned mundanities of life.
Chopping wood has always been one of my favorite means of escape.
Though I don’t do it much anymore.
Writing occasionally gets me there, too.
As long as its going good.
Which isn’t nearly as often as I would like it to be.
Which is why I came up with the saying…
Having had written is Sublime.