The birds still sing

I awoke at midnight.  Yes, midnight.  I worked on my books until 0300hrs, then went back to bed, awoken by my phone alarm less than an hour later, when I had to wake my mother up.  I got up and made her coffee.  She likes decaffeinated coffee.  The leaded stuff gives her heartburn.  The birds were singing outside.  It was cloudy, supposed to rain all day long.  A 90% chance of rain all day was forecasted, in fact.  It is 1500hrs as I write this piece and I have yet to see any rain.  The distant rumble of thunder mixes with birdsong from several species of birds in the paper birch tree outside.  I can hear everything because I have the front door of the house open to let the pleasant air in.  It was only supposed to be 49º F for a high today.  Last I checked, it was 70º F.  We need the rain, but it is passing to our south and to our north, the clouds dividing themselves evenly and passing by, darkness on the move.  It is sunny to partly sunny still.  Maybe I should have put my mother’s plants out.  Would that have made it rain?

Earlier today, despite the pandemic, the local high school was practicing in the open air of the football field for graduation tomorrow.  They tested the PA system and readied the field for a grand ceremony.  How did I know the class of 2020 would be special?  I knew because it is the year that I would have graduated from medical school, had I been accepted.  I stopped trying after the harsh double rejection by my most promising school in 2016.  Another rejection yesterday brought that to mind.  I will not give up for seven years on this Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing admission, either.  That is how long I will give it.

As the Doc put it, “PTSD has been sabotaging your whole life.”  He is correct in his assessment.  I am not, however, a quitter.  I have a tenacity that is remarkable, even to me.  I persevere through living and not dying.  I, personally, am of the opinion that I have a lot of grit.  Perhaps I am wrong, but I think my life could be much, much worse.  In fact, I know it could be.  I do not think that I have much to complain about, really.  Considering the physical and mental diseases and conditions that I could suffer from and do not, I count myself rather fortunate.  That holds true for the moment, at least.  I do have moments when I am not in a deep depression over my lot in life.  I am content, and overjoyed at times, with what I have been provided with.  I am very fortunate, when I stop to think about things rationally.  The thunder rumbles closer now.

I hope to become a great rock climber.  I also hope to become a great writer.  I do not know for sure, but I think that my area of writing will fall into fiction, the speculative fiction realm.  The thunder is overhead as I write these words.  I know that it could hail.  I certainly hope that it does not, for the sake of my aluminum-bodied Ford F-150.  It is not paid for — not in the least.  The birds still sing.

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