What is it about man that such terrible things can happen, and yet they seem, in their explosion of light and fury, it seems that your life is shown to be just that much more... interesting? In this Sunday, in which I have skipped several things, like church, and writing the first portion of my conference paper on Gender in Petrine Pilgrimmage Shrines, and as such, somehow feel better, I have just been.
This does not, of course mean that I will stop doing these things; instead it seems that I just need to feel less guilty about things. Regrets, my friends, are troubles -- failures, lost opportunties, gloom, doom, vituperation, brimstone -- all are not worth caring about, in the end.
I think, of course, that what did it was that I came home, to a temparate house in February, to drying clothes, to a few societial pressures, to Garrison Keillor godspelling the news on the radio, and finally, to the tiniest, most delicate of blooms on the spider-plant in the living room, and it just hit me that, no matter how little money I end up with, how hard the times may get, I just need to let things go.
How long I can let things go before they get too pressuring again, I don't know, but I'm not going to worry about that either.

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