Clinging.

Is it worth the trouble it takes trying to live life so that someday you get something worthwhile out of it, instead of it almost always taking worthwhile things out of you?

Carrie Fisher, The Princess Diarist 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to answer this question in the affirmative, to be quite brutally honest, and yet I keep scraping for reasons to. It all feels so futile.

Recently, I added a linnie to my shrinking list of reasons to persist: a bird breeder to whom I’d expressed interest contacted me a few days ago, asking if I wanted one of the two unspoken-for turquoise linnies she was hand raising. Fool that I am, I said yes, and, fool that I am, find myself looking forward to meeting this bird. I’ve already caught myself thinking about where to put the cage when I’m up, looking at linnie-specific training methods, wondering how I’m going to sleep with the cage on my dresser. I already know I’m going to the bird shop come next cheque to buy a cage and toys.

I’m about to make a commitment — not just to taking care of a new little life, but to outliving its span, which is at least another ten years.

What the hell am I doing?

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