It has taken a while to get the goo of disgruntlement off of me since my post about Neulasta Onpro (Taxol can be a sneaky bunkmate). It is one of the reasons I prefer not to go negative, it’s so darn hard to feel fresh again. Amid the onslaught of discouraging thoughts that pervade our daily lives, we are too often left to ourselves to coax out our own smile, to find our own patch of white snow amid the ashen detritus that all too often lines the roads of our lives. That is why I find it easier to live in a happy place and eschew the temptation of a black thought, because going around a tar pit will forever be easier than climbing back out of one once you have soaked yourself in its muddy bottom.
I saw a goblin staring down at me from the clouds yesterday. Pointy eared and firm of gaze, he watched, emotionless, waiting for me to label him. It would have been easy to call him a miscreant, letting folklore be the definer and going with the proverbial flow, but no. His edges softening under the encouragement of the breeze that had molded him, I decided to imagine him otherwise. He may have been, for that brief moment, a goblin, but deep down he was still a cloud, destined to become whatever my imagination chose to discern.
So why a goblin? I could dismiss it as the leftover splatter of Neulasta discontent. Much like gum on a shoe, gloominess sticks around longer than it should, rebuffing any kind of mandated expiration date to remind us it’s still lurking about when we least expect it. Instead, I shall ask, why not a goblin? It’s not the goblin that prompts the malcontent; in truth, it is my need to cast off this recent spate of negative emotions on the first external embodiment I can find that has summoned this poster child for the thoughts and feelings I am apparently desperate to rid from myself. At least desperate enough to conjure up a goblin as my fall guy. Yes, there it is, the eternal ray of sunshine is having cloudy thoughts. I have officially entered what I am told is Phase II of the grieving process. Yes, grief. Apparently breast cancer is a grief journey. Who knew? Me, I skipped off on an adventure, and little did I know it was into the lion’s den. And, although as of late I am not as blissfully happy as I have been heretofore, which I could also blame on the abrupt cessation of my weekly dose of steroids and Benadryl, I am not exactly melting into a puddle of uncontrollable tears and anguish either. I’d say I was behaving hormonally, but that’s a biological impossibility, so likely not. No, I am entering “Phase II,” having skipped Phase I entirely, or having simply failed to notice it. As for my goblin friend, I will admire his pointy ears one last time as they fade into wisps. His work is done.
I watch the clouds because they are a reflection of my inner self, a mirror held up to my subconscious. The images, they are the calling cards of my psyche popping out for tea and a chat. Sometimes it’s good flying weather and winged pigs abound, and sometimes a goblin, front and center, staring expectantly, prodding me to choose a side, elect a state of mind from which my perception of the sky and its banal white clouds will reveal my innermost secrets.
I’ve tried to take pictures of the Rorschach clouds that cavort around the skies for me, to no avail. It’s a little like taking a photo of a thought. I can capture the cloud, but when I look at it any time later, it is just a puff of cotton, meaningless, the interpretation having long become obsolete. It is better to enjoy the clouds while they happen, when the prod is relevant, and act upon them accordingly. For me, for now, while I am still scraping gum off my shoe, the gloom has become less sharp. It has faded to gray wisps and is hopefully making its way to join the white bits of clouds that have called it out. Meanwhile, I will explore this new thing in my life called Grief – Phase II. An adventure awaits, and I am never one to shy away from an adventure.