Of Muck and Mire

Over the last three days, I was doing a good job. I came home and the good feeling left me. When I have been away for a time at work, I sometimes have a rough time adjusting to being home again. My lady has been sick to her stomach for some time now and is a bit touched in the head from her last therapy session. And I am exhausted. If you can avoid it, never go tramping about the swamps of northern Ontario in November. Try to keep your sanity and knock your face into a wall. It is less painful and is over faster.

I don't know if because I am a big boy with small feet that I sink into swamps easier, but I spent most of Tuesday with two boots full of cold water tramping about looking for snow concealed muck pits. My toes may never forgive me. Add to that, I was having difficulty eating. I never managed to stir my lazy carcass out of bed with enough time for breakfast and I worked through the lunches. I had big dinners, but I missed my three squares a day for no good reason. All this, plus being away from my support makes maintaining my mental health difficult.

So, the Muck and Mire of my title is not only in the real world, but in my mind as well. I am beginning to want to write black poetry and my wrists are itching to be scratched open to let the bad out. I have been putting one foot in front of the other with out a plan for too long, I think. Now is the time look to the horizon, to get the itch to move out of the mire and on to other things.

Fair winds