My therapist is curious to know why I never know what to say in therapy, except to say that I don’t know what to say. She doesn’t seem to think it is a problem. Or doesn’t seem to understand why I would say it is a problem. So maybe it isn’t such a problem. There are so many other problems, some of which exist, some of which do not.

These are the final days before I hopefully reach immunity from covid. And of course I thought I’d pay homage to it by having yet one final psychosomatic (hopefully) bout of the virus. My throat hurts. I have waves, dense thick, unwieldy, inconvenient waves of utter fatigue. Hopefully this will be the end of it. And I am so grateful to have survived. Now I just have to figure out what to do with it. The post-survival part of life.

It really has been a spiritual vacuum, especially these past few months where I am so trapped in my own head, that I often forget to gaze out the window, the physical and metaphorical window. At dusk, I saw the sun pouring down over a rooftop across the street in a warm orange’ish glow. It was a nice reminder that there is a sky and a universe. They still exist. They have not forgotten how to exist. They have no need for an existence therapist. An Existologist.

I, on the other hand, would prefer to be an existologist, rather than a librarian. Maybe it’s not too late. It feels like I am almost too late for everything.