Remembering to be charitable

For an impatient person who values effectiveness and efficiency, it is frequently frustrating to realise that things aren't proceeding at a steady clip in the right direction. At this point, the instinct shouts - get rid of the obstacles in the way - but reality is far messier and often, this isn't an option. Or at least, the dictates of human compassion restrains us from making the harsh decision.

Writing a little every day

The seduction of devoting just x minutes a day to do something every day and eventually becoming an "expert"/"comfortable"/"achiever" has always proven too attractive for me to ignore. Having yet to be able to maintain that kind of discipline can only be attributed to my laziness, rendering myself unable to prove this theory. Perhaps that's the point of this - people who have the discipline in the first place to do these sorts of things are self-selected to succeed.

I always surprise myself by the intensities of my obsessions, distracting me from every other thing i'm supposed to be doing, sending my brain into overdrive. I think i could easily be thrown into the Crazy house, with the general instability my emotions and hormones are subject to.
I might scare him off :( although of course, given the likelihood of anything ever happening (i.e. 0), the scaring him off might just be the least of my worries.

I know (think) it's not my fault that things turned out the way they did, but I feel a measure (a large portion) of it is my fault for not knowing how to be content with a good thing, for not dealing with things properly, for shutting down without sufficient explanation and in general just not having been adult enough about this. It was dysfunctional almost from the outset and I just kept hoping that somehow things would work themselves out. All things are for the best, I told myself, and well, they really weren't, and now it dogs my every step.

There is a certainty about M Hire's misanthropy that is welcome. The completely opaque nature of human relationships, or perhaps, worse, the constant possibility of misinterpreting intentions and actions, render it fertile ground for perceived snubs, imagined insults, and plain old unconcern. Perhaps i am a dying trout flopping in the wake of a retreating wave, the water but a few feet away, and the next rush only in time to collect my still body.