The sun makes me so angry! Because it makes me so happy! And healthy! And I cannot have health or happiness due to being stuck in a windowless alcove in an ancient grade school grading 5th grade math homework that doesn't make sense. Long division? Give me a break. And give me a break so I can take a long, long, incredibly long walk outside and gather all of the holy happiness and hallowed health that I can. Let the sun give me a halo even if only briefly. Let me out of this alcove cage, teacher. Boss. Man person. Whomever you are that keeps me trapped.
But no complaining about work because that's too easy. And no complaining about the sun because that's too silly. And no complaining about my health (or lack thereof) because that's too terrifying. And no complaining period because what's the use. I just work myself up into a state of frenzy/anxiety/frustration/pissiness and then dammit! There goes my halo!
Should I go back to reading self-help books? I did that fairly consistently for about a month, but then I grew restless (typical!) and began reading those hoity toity classic works of literature. But ah! How I enjoy them. I enjoy the long, wordy descriptions of skies and cafes and roses and street corners. I want to take a walk in an English garden after supper and discuss the merits of marriage while twirling a cane. I will follow any strong female protagonist wherever she may lead me, even if it's into the dark recesses of the human soul. Do we have souls? The soles of my new penny loafers are as smooth as butter.
So maybe no self-help books right now. I'm too addicted to the tomes. But the worlds discovered within the pages of these classics help me to discover me. They are self-help books, just not marketed as such. They are arrows, treasure maps, puzzles pieces, lanterns. Sometimes they are even alcoves. But there will always be plenty of windows in these alcoves with halos hanging patiently from the ceiling, waiting for me to try them on and find the perfect fit.