The French use the term, ennui. It is a kind of boredom that comes from living in an emotional vacuum, an existence in which no one is either happy or unhappy. Just an easy, comfortable, predictable, routine existence punctuated with brief moments of either joy or sadness.
I watched her asleep on the bed, sensing she would be a different woman when she woke up. Subtle maybe, but still different. Every day. Almost every hour.
The year 1960 was pivotal in many ways. It was a collision point between faith in God-given possibilities and the emergence of bad choices made by the world’s leaders.
Now that woman who saved my life in so many ways is fading away. And God seems to be going with her.
Just as feelings of love seem viable and evident in the afflicted brain, so does the knowledge that a life has had meaning.
A man who over and over says to himself, If only I had been a better and more caring husband, this would not have happened.
Intervention must concentrate on the black cloud of grief. It is within that context the storyline must pivot.
I believe in the fundamental goodness of human beings as we try to better understand ourselves as highly intelligent creatures.
Walking the dog was an outlet for me. It got me out of the house.
The morning’s reality hits me with yet another crisis, another way I must do penance for years of acting like a jerk.