I tried about a half dozen things this week which just flat failed.
The nature of my failed undertakings is of no moment. The important aspect of the last four or five days lies in my intent. I wanted so badly to succeed at the tasks that I set for myself. I strove to send a ripple of positiveness into the universe, or to correct wrongs, or to acknowledge essential truths.
I limped my way to Thursday with a handful of hysteria and a pocket filled with pebbles.
Someone asked me a few weeks ago why I didn’t talk much in my blogs about some of the worst things that have happened to me along the way. You reference them, he observed. But you never describe them. Not really.
My friend might be right. If so, the point is that those days, those hours, those encounters have no importance except as paving stones. Do I build a bridge? Do I stack them around me in a circle, the sides of which rise higher, blocking my escape? Do I pave the road to hell or build a highway to heaven?
It’s a crapshoot, sometimes. But I’m not complaining. After all (said the girl, hand to forehead, sighing) tomorrow is another day.