The most picturesque spot near where I live has now twice been the scene of one of those long, serious conversations about (my) life that may sound like a good idea for a book or movie, but in reality have left me feeling gutted. This last time, it's probably because it reminds that even so many years after the first torture, things haven't brightened up, and people take notice of that. My companion this last time suggested, in the nicest possible way, that all this mental turmoil might just be ego. In the strictest sense he's right, but I feel it's off-target in spirit. What makes me feel particularly bad is the sense that the person who came here hoping to put an end to whatever uncertainty and unhappiness there was in the past life has been fundamentally let down. Not by anyone or anything in particular, and not entirely self-blamelessly, but it's unarguable that circumstances have not worked out as they should or ought. My shortcomings pried open for all the world to see, how is it that I have kept on going? I ask myself but have no answer. Sometimes it makes sense to embrace emptiness.