In the main, I'm glad to be done with pretend-friends, and to be allowed to get on with my life, such as it is. But today the bitterness wells up, surprisingly strong. The third full night's sleep since the time change: a full moon setting, improbably, in the southwest: the air thick with other creatures' seed: that's enough to explain it, maybe. Spring has always been an unhappy season for me. I find myself laboriously working through unconvincing justifications for my own behavior, and for others': surely I'm old enough to know better. We all seem poor, sorry creatures to me, surprised by the brilliant light of Spring. We go on pawing the leavings, sucking on long-unmarrowed bones, telling over our wealth of broken shells.
Peace. Old, unhappy, far-off things: why bother? Still, the heart has gone out of me, somehow. I am only a disgruntled ape who failed in his bid for alpha, and leaves his band in pique: and yet I don't have the strength of mind to really see it that way. I only cling to the fantasy: even then we could have fixed it, we could have made it well; but our courage failed, severally and as a group.
I shake my slow, thoughtful, orangutan head and pull my way into the trees, as deliberate as a sloth. I think it's simpler than that. I fought for dominion, and I lost, that's all. Why complicate it? And now I have to make the best of exile. Which has its consolations. I can make my nest where I please, and keep my long slow thoughts to myself.
But the moon, the moon in the wrong place. That troubles me.