Nothing To Say

I have nothing to blog about.

Can this be true? Is my life so empty, so devoid of content, that I haven't felt the urge to set down my thoughts in over a week? So lacking in satisfaction and purpose that I can't even find anything to brag about? So wanting in belief, passion and certitude that I find myself unable even to get angry about things?

Apparently.

Part of it is, I freely admit, pure ennui distilled from the disease. It pulls at me, hampers me; it's like someone removed the power steering. I can still maneuver, but it takes considerable more effort. Of course, part of that is natural slowing down due to age; I'm 58, after all. Strangely, though, it feels as if my body knows how much is due to ageing, and how much more I have to deal with from the disease's patina.

But there's also a sense of reluctance to get too worked up over things, even given the recession we've been in for over a year. It seems to come, paradoxically, from hope. From an almost certainly spurious sense of things being set right again, finally, after eight years of darkness. From a sense of relief at having someone in the White House who can complete a sentence. The tendency is to sit back, breathe a sigh of relief, and leave the driving of the country to someone big enough (intellectually) to see over the wheel.

And that's a bad idea. And we all know why.