To live alone without friends or family and no longer have the ability to construct fantasy is a sentence of slow death. To face eating again after someone you truly love has died is to struggle with your own futility. To know only pain without the touch of a caring hand is to lose touch with humanity. To be sidelined as having no skills after a lifetime of diligent achievement. How far can you go until you hit bottom? The hurtle into this self-abuse is stultifying alone. Now that simply being ‘old‘ is officially considered a problem to society. There is no growing old gracefully. The senses begin to fail. Eyesight no longer sharp with arms trembling from constant aching. Unable to hear distinctly/ And memory slowing to a snail’s pace. Life becomes an effort.
The sentiments of someone who has been too long in pain. Inexplicable to the young who do not know that youth is not eternal. “Oh what would give to be young again and know what I know right now!” Nothing to impart to the young as they have better things to do than hear someone rail on. There have been so many that lay in dry dust that have been so much more interesting than I. One must have current dreams of love and sensuality and a desire to uplift or simply move others to carry on this trade. It is too scary to contemplate sharing a soul empty of empathy. Too many painted Ophelia’s jamming up the waterways making navigation impossible for rusting tubs. Wrecks on either bank of no particular interest to anyone.
What fool asks for redemption at such a late date? If it all falls apart then it is meant to. Old Solweig in tights! Spinning an arthritic neck around at breakneck pace collecting dried roses handed out a century and a half ago. What sense is it to dream of all those times of loving embrace when you wake up to a cold aching back in a perpetually empty room. Break out another bottle! The next round is on the house. Except instead of booze its another next to impossible to conjure passing memory. Your own identity simply bits and pieces of the same still lingering around with the bottle caps in the weeds. How many ways to kill yourself are there that you would dare to trust? Why does one worry about the rest of the world if they are so vain as to try such a backdoor exist?
If you still have marble to chip away at. Whatever there is to discover at its core it remains a mystery. All that I now truly possess is poured into this flawed easy chair. The mirror presents the startling presence of a total stranger to awkward and decrepit to be believed as having any relation to the image of one’s self still persistently lingering within. One of the condemned bared from this point on to be allowed to dance with the nymphs. How absurd? Consider elephants thundering their way across a wooden stage in performance of Swan Lake. Passivity might be less of an embarrassment.