Tolstoy, such a Melancholic writer in every sense of it. A perfectionist who is deeply insightful, yet bearing such an overwhelming lot of unhappiness for a large part of his life. Reading his wife's perception of him, projected his life in an even more depressing light (although bias and reeking with vengeance).
Reading on Tolstoy set me into a reflective state of mind, and as I sat for a dinner I didn't have to pay for, I was reminded of something, a reality reinforced. What crossed my mind was that...
I am so fortunate by many counts. Just so fortunate.
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