Once upon a me

The barometer on my feelings rises and falls with alarming frequency.

Sometimes I feel like an ocean, ebbing and flowing, full of strengths and depths that amaze even me.

Other times I am like a bubble being buffeted by the wind, bruised by the rain, even dented by too much sunshine.

I try to build up reserves, to control how I react to all the pressures of just living so that when they are magnified by circumstances I can stand fast.

I realize that many of my feelings and reactions are based on the fairy tale of me, or at least the one I tell myself and that is actually pretty scary. The thought that life, as I know it, depends on what I conjure up means I have to take on a lot of responsibility that I really don't want.

No wonder ancient sages retreat into solitude and meditations.  The more I live, the less I can blame anyone else.   Writing about it falls somewhere between a rant and a fairy tale because I really don't know . . . and it's obviously going to take, at least, a lifetime to figure it out.