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At dinner today we got to talking. It started with the quarter-life crisis, and moved predictably into not knowing what to do with life, and how to possibly get to knowing it. I did more listening than talking -- not because silence is golden but because on some days the intensity of conversations just can't match my ego. With reference to the adage that asks what you'd change about your life and connects your reply to your deepest desires, I said near the end of the evening that I was happy with how I'd led my life in the past one, two years. I repeated this (with a similar level of smugness) to an ex-schoolmate on my way home. When I reached home I felt terrible. 

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Written the night before and unfinished, the above stemmed from a bout of self-loathing that almost went undetected. Luckily I woke this morning and recognised that I had had mixed feelings, as usual, and there wasn't a need to feel guilty over the 'bad' feelings. Sometimes in unravelling complex feelings, I have to grasp again and again at gossamer. By right this should make me thankful for when feelings are/become straightforward and undeniable. But by left those feelings that won't stay hidden seem to be the ones that must stay unexpressed.

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