The Ghost of a Feist

I have been an utter failure at noting as of late.   I do not believe in obligatory notes; they should say something, or they should not be left.  This past week has been a disaster, and I want to put as much distance between it and me as possible.  The decisions made will haunt my heels like the ghost of a feist.

Nous sommes esclaves de nos décisions: We are slaves of our decisions.  Or better yet, the words of a man far more eloquent than I: Malum consilium quod mutari non potest: Bad is the plan that cannot be altered.  Perhaps it’s high time I left the current plan upon the scrap heap and considered my steadily shrinking gambit of options.  I cannot undo what has been done, but I worry about my sanity in the coming weeks.

It is hard to consistently be confronted by that (or whom) you cannot have, and it is natural to convince yourself otherwise, to justify all the possible ways of the impossible being possible when it is impossible.  This is the Daisy Buchanan of the entry prior; the burning boat and the immolated king symbols of defeat and sadness, the white cliffs of Dover ivory bastions of isolation from the perils of France.

Making out at the bar last night was a poor decision.  Doing it in front of a girl I’m super into–poorer still.  And the fact the latter young lady has a boyfriend of six years…well, I’m still reminding myself.  Repeatedly.  It is a petulant child who must have what they want, when they want it, but my insides hurt.

Fuck.