On the cusp of my 41st birthday, it’s inevitable that a certain amount of
melancholy or nostalgic regret seizes my attention. At least, that’s the cold
and clinical way I’d normally frame it, given my disposition. In reality,
being 40 wasn’t so bad. My life is decidedly not perfect, but perfect is the
enemy of good.
It’s hard not to consider though, the path that led me here.
It’s only now, in a fever born of a withering cascade of chronic insomnia, I can look back upon what I am and how I came to be. Always anxious and unsure, contemplative and melancholic.
It’s incredibly sad this appears to be the level of discourse we’ve sunk to. Regardless of how I personally feel about Trump, who is quite likely the most incompetent and self-serving person to ever hold the office, the amount of hyperbole surrounding his administration is staggering. What’s worse, the indignant zeal, the sheer vehemence directed toward those who voted for him, is nothing short of appalling.