Esteem
Now and then, in passing moments of joy or loss, I'm struck by a sort of oppressive feeling weighting down on me in waiting. Unable to follow the thread itself, despite all my tugging and grabbing, it ends in a knot and I know it ends in a knot but no matter how much effort or anger it won't ever untangle.
In these moments I have always found myself thinking the same thing: I wish this were happening to a better, more capable and careful writer.
The positive aspect of that is that my esteem for others is quite high. My old analyst would tell me, though, that the converse of that is that the esteem I have reserved for myself is shrivelling in its scarcity and dwindling daily. Regardless, this issue of esteem is sitting front and center on the stage of my mind this morning and the director seems absent so I'm stuck with the brute.
