A lot of people have had a lot to say about the war, amongst them Vaughan (who is back! What joy!). He links to Robin Cook’s excellent resignation speech, for example.
However, it was a completely unrelated passage which caught my eye today. There seems to be a strange sort of connectedness in blogging. Time and time again I find that a concept I have been struggling to put into words is expessed to perfection on one or other of the blogs I read regularly (and there are not that many). Somehow, when I am elated I find the elation reflected, when I am lonely I find the loneliness reflected and when I am suffering from ennui, someone else is expressing their ennui in just the exact words I would have used if I’d thought of them first. Just this last week I have come to the conclusion that the drawback to living alone is the absence of anyone to give you a hug when you need one. And then I find:
Fuck. One of those days when I thought the wrong things, did the wrong things and said the wrong things. Everything just felt wrong. This evening, I walked in the front door, shut it behind me, stood there for a moment and just wished for somebody to hug me and tell me that everything would be OK. Instead, silence. Apart from the whirring of my mind, of course. That never stops. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Must find distraction. The swings and roundabouts are back with a vengeance.
I dunno.