postcript

I don't seem to distinguish weekdays from weekends that much anymore, but maybe it's just one of those things you feel for the moment, only to fall back into the more acceptable dislike of 9 to 5 days. But I like work- it has its charms, its rhythms. I like weekends, with the chance to cook; to have semi-raw burgers like I did last Sunday and a tall glass of 'real' coke (real sugar, yey!) and to run it all off until I could feel my neat compact calves tighten to the point of bursting (need new running shoes probably).

The secret bridge is in sleeping well which I don't have a problem with really. Give me good sleep and weekdays and weekends meld into one seamless tide of time.

Why do I even bother convincing people that I'm flowing well with the tide? Happiness is really so simple, but people seem to believe that it is like a third-world country document with so many conditionalities and requirements.

It's either you are or you're not. Don't even bother looking underneath the damned rug.

She may hate you, but you can still be happy. You're in deep credit card debt, but you can still be happy. He may be married to that dog-faced chick, but you can still be happy.

The one person in the world who was truly and unequivocally my soul-mate is truly and unequivocally dead, but when I looked into what I thought was a void I could never possibly fill, I saw grief. It was dark, dark grieving, but it was still something as opposed to finding nothing.

And that made me happy; to find that there is still something I can work on. Something to build on.

So please let me be.