Timorous or bold?

I'm not at all surprised about long ago it is since I've written here, it's more like a gut-wrenching punch to my guts. So much so that I - initially - think a string of posts must have been lost, somehow deleted, I'm deeply consternated. Then I come to my senses.
Has been a bleak time.
Not even a single photo nor mention of Swaziland, Hanover, Berlin nor England. Fuck.
Listening: hey Google, play Annie Lennox on Spotify / thanks Google Nest.
Is this what it's come to, while others are terrified indoors and hiding from the plague while the death count mounts.
I bought a new bed yesterday, a proper adult one, and it arrived this morning. I'm not sure what to do with it. It's been just short of seven years of sleeping on a battered, extremely well-worn kingsize futon on my bedroom floor that ex-friends very kindly gifted me when I arrived in Woodstock mired in debt and on the very bones of my sorry ass.
Reading a Kindle version of Artemis Cooper's Patrick Leigh Fermor biography, 'An Adventure'; I've just completed the last of the paperback trilogy of his travels across Europe when he set out on foot in the 1930s to walk from the Hook of Holland to Constantinople. The first one I bought at the Book Lounge in 2017. Then I bought 'Between the Woods and the Water' at the cosy Waterstones in Petersfield in December 2018 before, finally, as a Christmas gift to myself, the third volume - 'The Broken Road' - at the same Waterstones this past December.
One paragraph in his biography struck a chord earlier today: "The pleasures of Paris at night were also becoming dangerously addictive. He had always resented going to bed, and revelled in the smoky world of tarts and nightclubs, all-night cafes, seedy bars and chance encounters." Other than the resenting going to bed part, that sums how I have been for most of my life, up until the last year and a half. I have shut down swathes of my life and crawled back into a shell that was last so prominent when I was growing up, that ended just before my moon began wondrously waxing. It's well past - well in my sex-orientated mind at least (it's a long and complicated story, that has enthralled many a therapist) -  full moon and I live in the perpetual zombie/living-dead notion that it's waning big time.
I have to end this self-isolation, but my relationship with God and my return to Catholicism are also intricately would up in my self-imposed status quo. 
Then, not much later, today, and totally related, the following also stopped me in my tracks, caused a sharp intake of breath:

The way we are living,
timorous or bold,
will have been our life.

- Seamus Heaney (great Irish poet and Nobel laureate!)

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

(I need to do travel much more, but right outside of my comfort zone; or as my artist friend Harem strongly recommends: I need to live as if I'm starring in my own movie.)