Life got easier when I realized that after composing the crushing retort to a perceived online insult, I could round-file my clever answer and go on about my business. No need to trouble anyone else with my precious dignity: it's not a matter of general interest. It's not even a matter of interest to any part of me that I want to cultivate.
A line from one of my own poems haunting me: "Listen: don't waste time."
Yet I do grieve, grieve for all the wasted time -- which is not, itself, very profitable.
Listen: don't waste time.
Not when there is joy condensing on every cold surface, a sweat of delight breaking on the this old, patched, paved world of yours; a shiver with every wingbeat. It only takes one, maybe two breaths to get there: and the grip-strength come back to my hands, the focus back to my eyes. The grace and the lightness return.
Now. Get your kit together, Dale: you have a massage tonight.