uphill everything right now, on a punishing gradient. Of course, ten or fifteen years ago, I might have made lighter of the sheer physical endurance a body needs, but this is ten or fifteen years later.
The only serious apartment prospect so far: less than ideal, but an attainable goal. If time allows, I’ll visit others before the week is out. Must make a decision prior to June 22nd, if I hope for some aid with moving expenses.
Story: beloved ones, what can I say about all the promises not kept? At this point of tiredness, the exercise of reaching The End feels like trying to touch an ever-receding line called horizon. An illusion, as we all know, except when we are small and imagine the world is what our eyes make of it. (And, if it isn’t, we fully expect to make it so through sheer cussedness). Maybe I have to adjust to the notion of Incomplete. If so, a bit of laughter as the break-off point, and I’ll move on to the next attempt at writing a better version of life as seen from a less-than-ideal location.
This week, plus the next one. Paid employment ends on June 26th and will pick up in the second or third week of September.
Allez. Something funny always pokes through somewhere. I wouldn’t mind the sudden appearance of invisible workers packing up my things and carrying them off to an apartment closer to my current ideal, and closer to the river too.
Trois, deux, un: another day.