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  • Writer's pictureCrone


There is a sense of profound grief in the back of my heart which has no cause or no reason. It is an uncaused cause.

Or maybe it has causes. That my work is over. That my dog is old. That the future is a mystery. That I can never give my cats all they want of me - that undivided attention, those hours wiggling a ball of string. That I am struggling to regain my meditation habit. That writing essays is so hard. That I no longer have horses. That the days are getting shorter. That I am still alone. That there is so much cynicism and resentment and criticism and arrogance in this world. That I can't write coherently. That I can't paint (though today, inspired by C-C and a gift she gave, I did paint my best ever tree... out of very few trees... but still...). That I saw a dead fledgling in the park. That the foxes my friend has been filming have been killed - or, the four cubs killed, the mother battered beyond recognition and likely to follow them into the dark. That there is fat on my stomach and my skin sags where it did not used to sag. That there seem to be no Government grants to make my house green and therefore I can never sell it. that the birds outside are angry as a stranger starling eats the food. That money is money and has to be earned. That I will soon finish The Vikings. That I can't read. That I am alone. That I am alone. That I am alone.

Maybe there is anger. The emotion I try to deny. Anger at what? Can you have anger that is not intentional? You can, but it seeks a target and will take whatever it finds. And so you raise your shields. I shall not be touched, shall not be harmed, in case my anger explodes like wildfire at the least, the most undeserving, scraps of leaf-litter.

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