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Grateful 38

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,
uncomfortable
as diving through
cold water–

I’m here.
However wretchedly I feel,
I feel.

This week, I am grateful for the simple fact that I feel.

[Note: Post Grateful 52 explains the Grateful concept]