Whenever I can't seem to quite make sense out of life, which is quite often, I try to hope that at least my not being able to integrate life into a coherent and meaningful narrative is a form of honesty that might avoid superficial living. Attempts to deny what the heart feels it knows just don't seem to work. Thus, I'm Mr. Cloudy, not being able to convince my heart that, in fact, there will be a future integration that is neither naive but also satisfying at the deepest levels.

Some of my friends might argue that I live in a reverse kind of denial that refuses to recognize the good that is right in front of me. And I can admit that this is quite possible. Yet, something deep inside me keeps saying that the years of seeming dis-integration may yet yield to some larger beauty if I can openly face what stands out to me now, and what stands out is most often a sense that things should be different than they seem.

Lately I have to admit the depth of anger I have for the way things seem to be, and how far reality seems to be from the way I want things to be. I'm more comfortable being depressed than angry. Anger is a kind of hope, perhaps. A kind of "No." Whereas depression seems a more feeble wish, or disinterested form of protection. Anger could put one further in harms way while depression tries to find a safe quite spot that while sunless, seems sheltered. I suspect that getting to know and doing something with anger is an important part of moving forward for me.