What Am I Feeling?  By  W. Bruce Watson
What am I feeling, today? I'm in a depressed state of some kind; let's see if I can get it down on paper. It's a dull ache. But I don't feel sad particularly, but am easily moved to tears, e.g., while listening to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik with Maria, she speculating that its somber element was in reaction to the times in which Mozart lived, with me suggesting another cause by questioning whether he was manic depressive or not. My cheeks were suddenly wet with tears. And what exactly was I crying about? That there had been another soul in torment much like mine is? Tears? Why tears? Perhaps helped along by the musik itself. That there were tears at all speaks directly to the mood with which I am now grappling–trying to find a certain clarity of mind to see into it.

I can see I'm making no headway here. What am I feeling now? I take no joy in anything, or rather can't anticipate taking any joy in anything. But I'm not sad exactly. I am content to sit and think nothing. Things need to be done-the house cleaned, a bed made-Andrew is coming tomorrow for a week or so. Yet I stir not, and the words are not coming here, now, where I sit, fingers curled over the keys, waiting. "Just say the words and I will type them," I say to myself, to that other, the one I find ensconced in my soul, the one who will not will, the one around whom I'm dancing as it were, the one to whom I address these words, this mindless palaver. And who is it that let's me rattle on this way, revealing nothing, giving nothing?

“It is me. Ah, you've guessed it!” My interior dialog continues: “Yes, I know. So tell me, what are you feeling? Or should I now content myself with just finding out who you are? Who are you? What are you? Why have you come to keep me company faithfully, sweetly all these years and never say a single word?” (Sotto voce: I dare not push too much on this point, or else he may depart, and what then?) “Tweedledum and tweedledee? Perhaps. So what are we feeling, then? Give me something, for God's sake, anything, and I will leave off of this.” Silence, just as always. I feel nothing.
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
Copyright © 2011 W. Bruce Watson, Inc. All rights reserved.  
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