Here I Go Again...

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”

---Whitesnake

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.