The Worst Things Are the True Things

I woke up.
(street cleaning)
I walked out to my car. I got in.
3 blocks later, I found a parking space.
I walked home.

Those 15 minutes were a delight, and therefore, a surprise.
I tried to write about it.
Just now, I tried again.
I wanted to carve out that cross-section of my morning so that you'd feel like you were there. So I could share the experience.

What am I trying to prove?
That I had those moments at all should be enough.

. . .

I'm angry.
I hope it stays a while.
New, and thereby, unwieldy.
I'm fed up with everyone and everything, which is why I want it to stay.
Eventually, the useful and the true will sink to the bottom or rise to the top - however you choose to frame it.

"Hate the world, not yourself."
(lather, rinse, repeat)

Because it's not as if I create these embittered myopic versions of reality on a daily basis. I spend far too much of my time understanding and accepting and searching for the good. The hardest things to hear, the things I try not to feel. . .

The litany of unpleasantries.
Focus in, because the worst things, are the true things.
And tonight, I find that oddly comforting.