Les Zig

77. I drive home, shaken, wondering how this has splashed back onto Autumn. There’s a cost to coming back. It’s happened repeatedly. Luca might say thought defines reality, and maybe I can extrapolate how my thinking has determined how each cycle has unfolded, but there was no line of thinking about this, about having Autumn forgetting me. This is punishment. It has to be. For taking my own life. This is purgatory. Surely. I try to squelch that thinking, because it’s fatalistic, and fatalism has got me in this mess. Each time I’ve tried to sort it out, I’ve found a new mess. Now I’d give everything up to fix…