My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
One Person's Moan
I was told I sometimes moan, but it is of course only breathing; and they say I shuffle and mope along, though I am really conserving energy and so move more slowly. They thing I am depressed, while I call it being reflective. Sometimes they are right.
Labels:
depression,
perspective,
reflection
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