Packing up, again, except you can’t really even call it ‘packing.’ I am going through relics of my past collected in boxes in my mother’s attic. I have been crying a lot today, wishing I wasn’t here dealing with the fact that my life is more disappointment than victory and the fact that all I am can really be summed up as contributing to the 400-level carbon dioxide death ceiling that gives every one of us 25 years to life to live in this bubble of post-Pilocene wasteland of ignored warnings, idiotic leadership and evil running rampant with the rest of our time here on this gloriously beautiful, breathtaking and soul-sustaining place we call home, the earth.
Yet, I have no ‘home’ as is considered by any definition of my peers who have mortgages, are complaining about sending kids to college and mowing their lawns, using round-up on their weeds. Oh, to have their problems. I have very little, certainly no real estate, certainly no ‘family’ other than my parents, who adopted me. I am truly, on my best days, a free agent, on days like today, having major existential doubt.
It’s raining, the trees are blowing, I must get back to sorting thru the bullshit of my past.