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”.