I’ve thought a lot this year about what to call my caring about other people. I mean, what’s the specific common language there. Because, I’ve found certainty that it’s different. I’ve clearly coped, but there’s some familiar comfort in accepting that I’m less than average in my emotions. I don’t think I can explain why I care. I could make something up, surely, but I wouldn’t convince myself. I’d be tempted to file it under natural human behavior, which is why I’ve missed for so long there is a kind of empathy that happens naturally for most people.
I’ve been off social media since the election. I don’t have a summary of the result yet. Right now I’m tracking a container ship that is relevant to me make it’s way to Boston instead. The only certainty is Kate’s concern for the use of my privilege of being able to check out. Social media perhaps took a lot of attention in total, but not in measurable instances. I don’t get any time back, but definitely some attention. I think the hardest part is letting go of the last vestiges of past life and identity.
I had a dream about Z last night. I woke up in the dark, then realized it wasn’t so dark and the sun was starting to rise. I sat up in bed wondering if I could normally hear the heat pump in the basement from the bedroom or not. I could see the outlines of the disaster of the bedroom from Darius. I wondered about happiness.
I don’t know how to separate being happy from having a good time.