Here I Go Again
“An’ here I go again on my own
Goin’ down the only road I’ve ever known
Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
‘Cos I know what it means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams”
Today is beautiful here in the Valley. Sixty five degrees, windless, cloudless, perfectly still. Holiday has reduced what little traffic there is in this small town to virtually nothing. A great day to listen to your thoughts, and to read a book.
So, that’s what I’m doing. On the front porch, on the porch swing, bathed in the warm glow of sunshine, Annie asleep at my feet. I gaze out at the beautifully landscaped yard, flowers beginning to bloom, lawns neatly mowed, and birds chirping the happiest of songs.
I have just begun to read what I already know will be one of the great books I have read in a couple of years. (Coming Apart, by Charles Murray). There is not much to compare that feeling to. I know I will be putting this book down often, laying it upon my chest, for mostly two reasons. Because he has written something that requires thought and rumination; and because I don’t want to hurry, don’t want to finish this book. I don’t want it to end. It’s that good.
I just turned 52; my future sits before me, unplanned, yet still appearing rosier than at any time I can remember. I’ve had a solid, peaceful run of almost angst-free living, a rarity for me. I have others to thank for some of this, of course, and they know who they are. I have been generous with my appreciation. Again, I don’t want it to end. It’s that good.
Yet, I put the book down on my chest, and guess who crept into my world.
Doubt. The sinister devil-in-me waiting for the shoe to drop.
Doubt that my current peace of mind can sustain itself.
Doubt, even, as to the accuracy of how I see these recent good times and contentedness.
I hate this shit.