On the most sunless day of the year, in a season of acquisitive cheer, perhaps it is understandable that the blues should come calling. Whatever the cause, the blues came calling yesterday and linger today. They relate to a lifelong neurotic habit of imagining that because I care and act on that care, others will do the same. It's ludicrous, perhaps, but there it is. No one ever said neurosis was a reasonable cuss.
The apex of it all welled up in recognizing that I can no longer wish well for those who do not wish me well. Not that I wish them ill, but simply that I cannot afford, physically and mentally, to put out the effort. I'll get over it, I suppose, but in the meantime, it is a deeply dispiriting thought.
It amounts to meeting selfishness with a selfishness in which I am less skilled than others. I suppose it might amount to a well-dressed self-pity, but whatever it is, it sits like a ball of acid in my mental gut. I can do the Buddhist prattle and bring psychobabble to bear, but it is powerful enough so that I am more inclined to let it be, let it work itself out without imagined improvements.
I can no longer wish/act well for those who do not wish/act me well. This is going to take some practice.
And into the mix dances the old vixen, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride."