Miles to go

In the past couple of days, I've slowly come to realize that to detach and uproot in order to begin the next phase of life elsewhere, while possible to do logically and productively, is not something I can yet do responsibly- I would not be able to afford it in all the ways that are important to me. Another year seems like a significant amount of time only because of the increase in my age, nothing more, and it actually seems as though the last twelve months have rushed by without making any real mark on me at all. Somewhat more diminished by disappointment, slightly more bitter, and rather more detached after a number of rejections. These aren't the sorts of things that permanently warp the spirit, provided, of course, that at some point, the slow tide flows the other way. I have no logical reason to keep hoping, given that the majority of happiness in my life has been due to luck, and not the results of my focus and effort. Things that would happen, I'm sure, whether I hoped they would or not. I have not in any way deserved them, and it is possible that I will never be in such a situation as to be considered to deserve anything better than what falls to me by chance. I understand that even if this is the case, I'll be better off than most people in general, and that it's only in comparison to those I know and those of whom I am typically aware that my life seems lacking. But comparisons of that kind are seldom logical, and so they can only hurt, never help.

The likelihood that I won't deserve whatever good might someday be in store for me does not excuse me from trying. Nor does it give me the right to escape. Now there are nights when I feel so desperate that I am essentially paralyzed by sensations of worthlessness and futility, and helpless to do anything more than cry until the sky lightens and takes away the choice of being or not as the imminent necessity of pulling together and continuing on overpowers through guilt and shame the question of "what for". If I left now, it would only be a more acceptable form of suicide in that nothing would be decisively accomplished except a change of scene. I have things that are best fixed here first, because I don't want to be burdened with them, wherever I do go.

So, this is another disappointment, in a way, but at least it's the result of a decision I made. I will be compensating myself for the delay in other ways. Letting myself have time to volunteer is one, perhaps the biggest... I'm not sure of the others yet, but nothing that depends upon the approval of others. I can't win that, so I have no reason not to do as I like within the bounds of my conscience.