Where It Comes From

Autumn will come, and I will disappoint myself. I say this not to be negative or self-pitying. For it is true. I was disappointed last Autumn, and the Autumn prior. The concerning part is that increasingly I have found myself more and more disappointed between Autumns.

I believe this to be the reason for the things that happen. My bus leaving as I got to the stop. The bird that shat on me this morning. As well as your absence. That these events and my disappointment are born of the same mother.

I believe that action matters. That it causes all. I only believe this in the moments where I do not disappoint myself. This is why during the months of August, September, and October I find myself immobile. Splayed out on my bedroom carpet. Each day of this that passes leaves me more disappointed the next, and I believe the cycle is evident to you.

I wish not to disappoint. However, I think getting better means confronting this. Fixing it.

I watched someone on the bus once who was chatty, they spoke to the driver and made them laugh, then to the person they sat next to and made them laugh. I do not think she disappointed herself.

I watched an unhoused man from the window of the same bus. I saw him walk around with his sign, moving from car to car. I do not think he disappointed himself.

I watched an ambulance arrive at the store on the same block. Three people emerged with a stretcher. They hauled a body out the store and left. I do not think they disappointed themselves.

On the days I am up to the task of thinking of this, I come to the conclusion that to fix this. To be like them. To be like you. Would be impossible. A quick sort of calculus ensues. I am disappointed far too often.