Hey there. How are you? Alright? Get through "Blue Monday"?

In January, I'm always a little stuck inside myself. I'm undoubtedly trying to build new habits or practices. Inevitably, I'm trying to lose weight. This year, thus far, things are going OK. Mrs L's work dictates the rhythm of the household, and self-generates a routine.

We're up at 0500, and by 0700 I've read, journaled, meditated and gone down to the office. I'm typing this at my standing desk, the sun streaming through the windows, the dogs both slumbering on the couch behind me. The first journal entry of the day is a gratitude statement, and I could write every day how lucky I am to be where I am now in life. This morning, the scales were kind to me, so I'm literally dancing (or at least the closest thing to dancing that I do), in between sentences. The Attractions of Youth by Barns Courtney, if you're interested. I haven't given up on any new habits yet and my inherent optimism is holding sway. Damn it, life is good. I'm going to smash my goals this year. I should probably write a motivational course...

And yet...

Two nights in a row, I've woken Mrs L, screaming in my sleep. That's bad enough, but worse, it means that I face the Sicilian Inquisition each morning. (And nobody expects the Sicilian Inquisition.)

"What's on your mind?" "Umm..."

I don't know if it's just me, but I can never give a satisfactory answer to that question, or, not an honest one, anyway. People have looked at me and asked what I'm thinking about. The only true answer I could give would be "absolutely nothing". I have the gift of looking thoughtful when entirely vacuous. Naturally, I can invent a better answer.

"Ah, it's all this Covid. Very worrisome."

Of course, it is. However, I'm some sort of accidental stoic; I seldom worry about things that I cannot control. It has always struck me as an entirely pointless exercise. I've considered the information available, combined it with my appetite for risk and decided how I will live. Should I catch the virus, then I'll deal with it best I can.

"Sorry dear, I'm having an existential crisis..."

I can barely spell it, let alone have one.

The truth is, I'm not much of a worrier. Never have been. There were times when the business kept me up at night, but generally, that would be insomnia, soon remedied by getting up and working.

It seems that my subconscious might be a secret anxiety sufferer. Either that, or I'm having nightmares.

I've always believed the subconscious to be incredibly powerful, so I'm loathe to ignore it. Perhaps it will let me know what's on its, no, our mind, in its own time.

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