tiny, trapped, and old

Reading some short stories by Jorge Luis Borges. Aware of the gulf that lies between truly masterful fiction and the merely excellent. His is, of course, the former.

This has been such a hard winter for me! But, then, aren’t they all. Hard, I mean. For me.

There is some light: We will, forces-of-the-universe willing, close on the new closet home on May 1, among other small mercies.

And I am leaving for a week in Ireland on Saturday. A blissful pause.

But.

I am sad, people, SAD. Inexplicably so. Feeling tiny, trapped and old.