One month. On November 18th the day is set for movers to arrive at my NYC apartment and that will be the end of this part of my life. I remember what it was like to have goals and aspirations that at least were on the probable side of possibilities. There was a time when working hard did pay dividends in successes.

I think that can no longer be said in today's world, and I can't bring myself to do much other than grieve, quietly and alone, for the passing of any optimism I had. I don't know how long this pain will last but I'm betting it will be with me for a long time, like the other things I've mourned in my life.

On Tuesday I head back into the city for a couple of nights to try and pack more stuff up along with everything else I'll be throwing away, watching the sum total of my possessions dwindle. I know the nightmares will be with me every step of the way, reminding me of my failures and lost opportunities. 

Still, I have to keep reaching for some positives; I'm not homeless, and I haven't lost anyone to COVID. That has to be enough for now.