Lying around. Lethargic. Aimless. I'm lying on the bed this morning just thinking how meaningless things seem sometimes. Thinking I ought to re-read Ecclesiates, just for the comfort of knowing the feeling is nothing new. If Solomon felt the same, I must be in good company at least.
I'm thinking back over my life, of all the mistakes I've made, of all the stupid things I've done, of all the little roads and branches that led nowhere. I'm thinking that there has been no cohesion in any of it, no plot, no theme. In every circumstance I find myself marooned -- trying to arrive, trying to return, trying to finish and trying to start, waiting to live where I find myself this moment, as always in every phase and every time -- for all the pieces to fit, all the lines to connect, for the mold to finally set and become its own intention.
What would this look like, I wonder? Peace? Security? Rest?
I look back on so many good intentions that just turned out wrong somehow. What can they mean now if stillborn, undone, unsuccessful? How could I have been so wrong about things I felt were so right? Or what contrary fate has dogged my most ardent efforts? Or did I simply, in every time and in every effort, fail to try hard enough?
That last, yes. I suppose the fault is to be found in that last.