And the world will be a better place

It's past eight and I'm still at the office. It's been a while since I stayed late. Not so bad, really. I managed to toss off an interlude, which I had intended to write anyway, but which was largely a reaction to an article I read today. An article written, I think, to be deliberately provocative. And like lemmings, we shared it, we commented on it, we flamed the writer.

So what if she deserved it?

We spent a good chunk of the very precious time allotted to us, dumping on someone too dumb to know any better. I mean, if that was the attitude we had taken, that would have been OK. Instead, we got personal. At least, I did.

I feel ashamed now. I really have to get over this whole "subhumanising" people.

Anna told me the writer was eccentric. Like me. At one wedding dinner she apparently told this inoffensive guy who was quietly eating his dinner that the mole on his face was in an unfortunate position and it meant that he wouldn't live to see his grandchildren. Or possibly, his children. In short, that he would die. Soon.

Out of nowhere to a stranger.

Oh dear. Was I like that?

Just Saturday, I told Mark that he would make someone a good wife. Make that, a good trophy wife.

So uncalled for. I will apologise today. Although it was said in fun, and there was a good deal of alcohol thrown into the picture that led to a boisterousness above the usual alcohol-induced boisterousness, that was still...unkind.

And my living quarters have deteriorated into scary proportions. Most times I just run away somewhere, anywhere, so I don't have to face it. And then I return, and slump on the sofa so I can avoid what I have to avoid.

Avoidance is my middle name. That and Denial (which is not a river in Egypt).

Maybe I'm just tired.

Maybe it's because I have no idea what's in store.

Maybe because where I stand right now, the road ahead seems dark and forbidding and I am not sure what tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will bring.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Are you there?

Do you hear me?

Are you seeing what I'm saying?

I think you're seeing what I'm saying.