twenty twenty

A move is a move, regardless of who or what I am running from. There are still boxes left unpacked, there are still sleepless nights of regret, there are still fumes running around my head when i wake too early and i pluck the little stars and birds out of the halo and look at them. "What are you doing there?" I may say, as if I bumped my head from a fall in the night.  Tremendous flu struck at the beat of 8:00 p.m. new years eve this year.  And what fun followed as my wife and I turned about in our sleep sacks, alternating between sweat, fear, panic, chills.... My god those chills
I did manage to break 100 twice last year in golf.  I follow all of the majors now; i have favorite golfers.  I have bought new (ish) irons, I have traded in old wedges for new, I have no-longer-used clubs sitting in a dusty corner (something my brother mentions in the same breath as having children, your first car, and a pocket knife collection). 

What else...?  So the flu wrecked havoc on my physically and mentally. The fun depression of my 20s given way to a real darkness as I suck the ink off the black walls "make it stop," as if to say "enough."  Though there isn't really ever enough.  And my golf game, that old metaphor, it is as useless as ever (did I mention?).  Just plain useless; though I did manage to take my son along in a cart one day. I like to think he enjoyed driving about, though watching his father curse as one ball after another sailed into deep rivets of earth he had to be asking himself, much as my wife did the one time she saw be at a driving range topping ball after ball after ball, trying ever harder to impress her with mighty, heroic blasts, "is this really what he's been spending all his time and energy doing?"
Heil, Change!  I guess.  Not that you can stop it. But sometimes it feels like a circle isn't change at all.