Do you ever have one of those days where not being dead is like this rude inconvenience?

The kind of day where all of your hopes and pleas to the Universe for something to come through for you–something that might make you happy—all of your hopes and pleas are dashed, quite rudely, and you begin to wonder why you bothered surviving the crash that almost killed you 10 years ago?

Like what was the point, if there even was a point?

Like was there some sort of lesson I was supposed to have learned?

Like am I supposed to be grateful to be given a second chance…. a second chance to experience a despair and aloneness unlike anything I ever experienced before the crash? Is this something I should be grateful for?

I know, I am sounding very ungrateful. And it’s wrong of me to take it out on the Universe because I am the one who is responsible for every bad decision that put me in this predicament which the Universe is not helping me find my way out of.

But it’s not like it’s the Universe’s fault.

It’s my fault for expecting the Universe to be there for me at my every beck and call.

It all points to the same realization. Some people are good at living. Others are not very good at it. It’s like when I asked my piano teacher if she ever had to tell any of her students to give up piano because they just were not getting anywhere with it. And she said, yes, she has had to tell people a couple of times. And I said, “You will tell me if I reach that point, won’t you?” She said she would, but then said I’m not there …  yet.

Some people are not cut out to play piano or tennis or basketball or knit or cook or clean or drive or park or navigate or do math or love, or in my case, live. I know I’m not very good at it, but maybe there is a teacher out there who might offer a different opinion.