Acquiescence

I've been here before.

Asking for help. Taking whatever I can get.

Warden isn't dead, but I could no longer feed him. Regrette, too. They are back at the shelter, perhaps adopted by now by some caring soul(s). Perhaps I will get my feet back under me, and they will still be there, and I will take them back. Perhaps I know deep down that that will not ever be true. Curt Jimenez can't pretend that the way things were will ever be the way they are again. If I ever have a job again, I must know that it is as subject to sudden change as the weather. A person living such an existence cannot take on such things as dogs.

I have sold things. My computer. My accordion. My food processor. Were it that I had anything else of any value, these would most likely be gone as well. I think of Rick's voice in my ear--I am practicing detachment! The things I once loved are detaching themselves from me slowly, one-by-one. They have gone, as easily as they came. Rick would have told me that they were never mine anyways. The library still exists, and will still let me in to warm up and check my email, see if anybody has work for an old con. Nobody does, it seems.

So what of this blog? Alas, it is one of the few things that I don't think anyone can take away, even once my landlord stops taking pity on me, so maybe I will keep up with it, to whatever degree I can. I don't know that writing is therapy, but it is something. I have not brought much good into the world. At least this little blog might be able to supplement that sad legacy a bit.