I am Norman Burroughs: watery blue eyes, disappointed, dispirited, plowed under, a melancholiac. Gravity works differently on me: I accumulate it.
Historically I’ve considered being disappointed in others an indulgence, a crude luxury. Bad taste that comes back to bite you on the ass. I was wrong: sometimes that which is must be spoken of. In pure and simple terms.
But it’s also the surest way to get you into a trouble you don’t deserve, surest way to get myself into trouble. Trouble deflected, trouble no one took the trouble to create invective much less hurl it themselves. Too much effort: it’s trouble deflected. The trespasses of others made into mine.
Perhaps that’s where all this extra gravity is coming from: ceramic hearts deflecting cold stabs where I was expecting the warmth of a beating human one.
Never say “it can’t get any worse” unless you’re on the last breath or two from an expected death.
