Raven

Yesterday despression fell over me lightly, like the black wing of a great raven, hunkering down over its nest for the night.

Life is so wildly full and disorganized and seemingly out of my control.

The worst thing is I know I have no right to be dull and depressed. My life is great, is it not? I have nothing to complain about. All is well. We have what we need. Thanks to T. Thanks to T.

He is goodness, is he not? He is Adam Bede, isn’t it true? He keeps trucking along in spite of the mundane awfulness. He just gets on with it.

But not me. *I* was taught to imagine life as infinitely full of possibility; that we could be the tiny fleck of diamond on the great raven’s wing, soaring through the skies between the tallest evergreens. That’s what I expect from life.

Not this mundane, out-of-control awfulness. Not placid acceptance of us all being cogs in the wheel of some relentless, pointless machine.

However: I am only under the light, black wing of a raven; I have only to make my tiny way *onto* it, in order to soar