4:16 p.m. - February 23, 2002
Daffs
The daffodils alongside the fence have all opened up since about 2 p.m. this afternoon. I think they're wishing me luck, saying things will be okay in an attempt to cheer me up. How thoughtful.
Daffodils are to me what cherry blossoms are to the Japanese, the mono ke aware, taking sublime pleasure in the fleeting. I'm like that, preferring the short but sweet over the long and fibrous that you grind between your teeth and constipates.
When melodrama strikes I wonder if I'm going to end up alone in the world, one of those lonely men who when they die leaves behind a mountain of possessions nobody wants because nobody knows he has any worth arguing over. It frightens me. I feel I've made an immense mistake by breaking up with Dana, thrown away my picket fence and children and Ford Windstar minivan and safety and security and the certainty that I will not be alone to instead jump off some cliff that's neither safe, predictable, secure, moral, or guaranteed.
But I'm not going to regret it. I'm investigating and shall see how things turn out. If this is all a mistake, at least I'll be able to look back and say for some time I lived, certain of uncertainty and didn't go back. I just hope this period lasts longer than daffodils do.
