I use to write so much. Now I hardly put pen to paper. I am not sure what has changed. Maybe my mind is too spent, capable, now, only of rudimentary functions. It doesn't matter as I don’t seem to have a lot to say. I have a hard time imagining how I had so much to say before.
I still think. It’s not as if the lights are out. But the length of my thoughts, like the length of the breath in my lungs, is shorter. I don’t have the stamina for complexities anymore. The quip; the quote; the remembered phrase is long enough, and then I am ready to settle into the groove of simple anonymous awareness…, of immediate surroundings…, of imperative demands…, of pressing sensations…, and comfort.
I may well have melted brain cells with invulnerability infused life choices. Or I may just be a fifty two year old man. I may be wiser, or numb, or desensitized. I don’t really know. I have never been here before. Isn’t that what life is - being (constantly) where we have never been before? Sometimes life seems repetitive, but it can’t possibly be. Life never stops being baffling; befuddling; beyond comprehension.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up and do what seems routine. But routine is just a narcotic my mind produces to ease fear of the unknown. Tomorrow I will wake up and unwittingly step into the abyss of unfamiliar. Would that I had the spirit of Crazy Horse and I could go into each unknown moment with the call “today is a good day to die”. Because if I had that courage in my heart to die, I know I would also own the courage to cry “today is a good day to live”.