I woke up on Monday morning with a feeling of disquiet that I just can’t shake. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m confused. I don’t know my arse from my elbow. I’m two month’s behind schedule with my dissertation which is due at the end of June. I’ve yet to start it. I have workmen in the flat so the place is covered in dust. I’m covered in dust. I would sleep for Ireland – and for Hungary – if I didn’t have to be up at sparrowfart each morning to let the lads in. I’m sick to the back teeth of politics. I’m sick to my stomach of rude, petty-minded people who can’t punctuate. And I’m just plain sick from all the chocolate I’ve eaten this week.
I’m annoyed that I haven’t yet managed to learn Hungarian. I’m annoyed that I can’t read my mail with any degree of accuracy. I’m annoyed that I can’t find artichokes in water in this city. I’m sad that I lost my best mate. I’m sad that some people use the adjectives formidable and intimidating to describe me. I’m sad that Rory McIlroy didn’t feature in the Masters even though I picked Bubba Watson to win.
I’m angry that Orban is nationalising all recycling companies in Hungary come January 2013. I’m angry that petrol is so damn expensive. I’m angry that I can’t find my black onyx ring. I’m upset that I keep crying and keep crying because I’m upset. I’m frustrated that I can’t finish anything I start and so have stopped starting anything at all. I’m pissed off, fed up, and mad at the world. And it’s Friday.
And right in the middle of a major hissy fit today brought on by something as serious as me breaking a fingernail, I remembered a poem by Rod McKuen that I memorised many moons ago:
It’s nice sometimes
to open up the heart a little
and let some hurt come in.
It proves you’re still alive.
If nothing else
it says to you–
clear as high hill air,
as diving through
However wretchedly I feel,
This week, I am grateful for the simple fact that I feel.
[Note: Post Grateful 52 explains the Grateful concept]