3 years Liz-o-pen

WordPress sends the message that I have been blogging here for three years now. It doesn’t matter as much as it should to me. These occasions are celebratory ones for fresh, less world-weary sorts of people. People who are unlike me buried with my mortality and perpetual loneliness. so, to celebrate, in a certain way spurred on by savagery or a cruel desire to taint the demeanor of the world with more weariness and the appaling sort of stability, I have taken to celebrating it with a blog post and be just like everyone else.

I have had a miserable sort of day. brace thineselves, for the one who has this sort of sadness adapted to her should probably be more of the complainer than the sharer or reader joining in the endeavour of reading and finding out more about how the day went. What? did anyone hurt you? No. Same answer I gave to my well-meaning grandmother who hugged me and kissed me but somehow whose warmth I did not feel. I’ll admit, I guiltily did not feel, but I cannot help it. I am not self-indulgent in my misery, but more of a victim to the spaces in my head, convoluted with flashbacks, with heat, with pain and with longing and what feels like a discarded life. This is a paragraph of disregard. surprisingly, it feels like my best paragraph so far.

That being stated, I have had to hear of stories of friends I love whose lives are filled with hardships and sadness and this has spilled into mine. I want everyone to be happy, but this is not always the case and many times very rarely the case that it is hard to have my spirit elevated. The foreboding of disaster draws close on my neck, making my hairs stand. No one cares as they should. No one understands as they should. we are alone. This is what spurgeon speaks of when he says friends depart and only Jesus remains immutable. It is an old lesson.

It might be the heat, the summer that never ends as the flies that come with it, it might be the new season, whatever that may be , the apathy that comes with it, that spaces go on forever, life is too long, and everything repeats itself and why shouldn’t the thing just end already. Or it maybe my need to get busy because things are bland just as I had suspected for a while. So far as it doesn’t yet end–life, I mean, after being miserable and feeling the weight of the oppression of hopelessness , I decided, come what may, I will just be and hold the horns of whatever bull. May it crush me or should it not, then I stand a chance at living and life, so I have decided to push on as I , in that peculiar loneliness that comes to people the higher they climb is motivated somehow. It is tough to accept that going back to that plane where it is easy to meet people who can grasp easily might never happen, but being one of a kind is not entirely peculiar to me.

Tomorrow promises some new adventure, a slight one, but whatever. If nothing matters to anyone, one more or less shouldn’t cause me fear.

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2 responses

  1. i read somewhere, life is comedy to those who think but tragedy to those who feel (or the other way). This is to say, there will not always be a time when all is beautiful, roses even have torns. I think it’s healthy sometimes to act selfishlessly to our gains, to be glad for little joys as they come in our lives irrespective of how awful life around us is.
    Happy 3years blogging shugs!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you! It might be the other way round, what with solomon saying the abundance of books make us weary and increase our sorrows. sounds like thinking would be the same, but I hope for joy still.

      Liked by 1 person

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