I’m a little bit sad today. A little bit disappointed. It’s hard to describe why without breaking any confidences, but I’ll try.
I tend to think the best of people - or rather, I try to think the best of people. I think there’s a term for it - “a willing suspension of disbelief” - where in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, you try to find the good in somebody, or something.
Somebody I have known for some time has gone some way to defeating my best efforts. I’m hoping I’ll forgive and forget - or rather forget, and then forgive - which probably makes me a fool of sorts.
Of course the story (that I’m not telling) involved alcohol.
There’s an oft-quoted truism that people tend to fall into two groups after a few drinks - either the best, or the worst version of themselves. Happy versus angry. I wonder if perhaps it’s not that alcohol causes people to choose which wolf they feed - more it erases the curated wolf they portray to the world, exposing their true nature.
I have no doubt most that know me would smile at the analogy, roll their eyes, and agree that my resulting “animal” would be far more labrador retriever than any kind of wolf.
I will admit to seeing the world through largely innocent eyes. A wilful innocence that protects me from having to think too many ugly thoughts. I cherish friends, happiness, kindness, and hope. I struggle with anger, hatred, and division. I see the best in people - rarely the worst. It’s a blind-spot of sorts.
Anyway.
I think it’s time to put the kettle on, and go fall into bed to read a quiet book about quiet people living quiet lives for at least a few minutes before my brain runs out of power for the day. A book might distract it from turning the recent past over and over, endlessly - at least until sleep overtakes me.
Of course this is me - moments into any sort of sleep, remaining wattage will be employed to conjure a hilariously fragmented dramedy of epic proportions.
What was it Shakespeare wrote?
“All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts”
You can tell my mind is flailing when it starts throwing out Shakespeare, J M Barrie, or Tolkien. Time for bed.