A pity then that I'm simultaneously assailed by an attack of spleen unpleasantly reminiscent of PMS and fandom idiocies, caused by nothing I can pinpoint. Breathing and attention makes it go away for stretches at a time before the snarlies come roaring back again. A pain, though I'm consoled by the testimony of one practitioner who took himself off to a hut in Thailand with no company and a basic Buddhist text, upon which he was startled to find himself assailed by
a lifetime supply of suppressed anger and fear. For the first three months, I had to endure an almost continuous flood of hatred, rage, anger and fear. (J note: mh, sounds like Tokyo.) This deluge of negativity was not what I was expecting. I had been looking forward to a life of tranquility.Yes well, evidently mindfulness works on this, but I have a sneaking suspicion that what I really need to do is to write something. Which I procrastinate on because it requires writing without inspiration, that dreary soul-killing exercise. Would rather count my breaths than that.
Maybe I should go mend some sheets instead, to have at least the comfort of usefulness.