Okay dear readers, one last entry on divorce and then I promise to lighten up. This is actually an old journal entry from July 2004, but wanted to share it as it is a continuation of the previous entry, and I like the opening sentence:
My wife had left me some ten months previous, but the memory of her still hovered over the city, pulled rain down from the clouds, blotted out the stars at night. I’d given up just about everything in the divorce—the house, the car, even our dogs. I moved into a high rise downtown because the thought of being alone in a house frightened me. At least in an apartment I could feel like I lived in the midst of others. Little did I know apartment means “meant to be apart”. And from my perch 25 stories above the city I could look down on life teaming in the grid of city streets, the south metro, the steady crawl of cars along 94. I had hoped altitude would give me perspective, which it did, I suppose; Real life happens out there, in the distance, and in here I dwelled in my vacuum.
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