This is a positive step. Progress. A year on and I want to get back on track, as it were. Although I'm still a tad nervous and anxious. Somewhat normal, methinks. In view of the fact that the last time I ran, I ended up in hospital.
But yesterday I saw an ad for a 5k/10k run. And felt the need. The need for speed. Or a gentle jog, at least. I have only ever run a 10k race once. I collapsed at the end and was very poorly for a few hours afterwards. Which kind of killed the achievement of finishing. And in a fairly decent time too.
Maybe I should take the hint... But I can be a stubborn ole bird. That said, today I can’t think of that race without feeling bad. Really bad. Similar to how I felt about To the Lighthouse many moons ago. When I finally finished it. And hated it. I fear this is what I will feel about Mrs Dalloway from now on.
Closing the book finally this morning, I felt kind of empty. Disappointed. Unfulfilled. I did finish it. Which is something. But I pulled and dragged myself through. And collapsed in a heap at the end. So the achievement was most unsatisfactory.
I just didn’t get it. I feel like I’ve let myself down. How does one not like Virginia Woolf? It feels like a failing. Have I missed something? My neurologist says that I appear to be slower than most. Referring to my recovery, of course. But maybe his words cut closer to the bone than I imagined?
Then the characters. Well, they generally felt stilted and jarred too. They left me cold. Their self-possession. Superficiality. Clinging to a past well parted, but much regretted. Although outwardly appearing satisfied with their lot.
Such self indulgence. Such egotism. The well-to-do busying about their vanities. Perceiving the world from a safe distance on high. Alluding to issues and calamities in a world far from their existence. Issues and calamities easily swept away in the folds of green satin and lace of a party. Even suicide is just an unpleasant intrusion to all the beauty and grandeur of the evening.