The leaves of fall have swung to rainbows and gone their different routes as the whiteness of winter has settled in. There's a new freshness noticeable all around. Some steaming espresso mixes pleasantly with the vapor that languidly skims up from the lake. I extend my legs up and onto the deck's railing and recline in my rocker to splash up winter's sun. The babble of snow geese attacks my awareness. It's been said that they administer to each other. On the off chance that one is wiped out, others go to its guide. I ponder what the wiped out one feels. Surely not a feeling of forlornness. No, I'm not going to discuss forlornness. Indeed, perhaps a bit. I think, similar to the geese, dejection has a partner. I call it fear. Be that as it may, what is fear? It's a reaction to an apparent peril enthusiastic and additionally physical. Perhaps it's a dread of the obscure, of what tomorrow will or won't be.
Unquestionably, there are times I fear not being found on the off chance that I kick the bucket and I am separated from everyone else. Note it isn't a dread of kicking the bucket. I figure I simply don't need the rot of my physical self to stink up the place. Dread of not being found on the off chance that I fall and harm myself. Dread of awakening and having nothing to do, no place to go. Dread of never again having a reason or explanation behind my reality. That is genuine dread! Never again being of esteem.
The dread of not having a reason, an explanation behind living is so exceptionally obvious in nearby diners where people go for their breakfast. They exist and that is about all. There is an absence of imperativeness. They don't appear to appreciate the sustenance they are ingesting and they scarcely snort as the server brings the espresso pot around for a refill. Some are perusing a daily paper or a soft cover. You ever observe them turn the page? In all probability not. It's a disguise. A cover so nobody can see the void in their eyes.
So at about eighty-five what reason for living do I have? I never again educate, and as a healer, my customers are rare. A lady, my age, as of late uncovered that Face Book gave her an existence. I flinched. Do I truly need to know what somebody, most of the way around the globe, had for their supper? Or then again that they have been "honored" with a 6th grandchild? The contention over the estimation of the Internet keeps running from lack of interest to irreplaceable. Some asserting it isolates family life while others guarantee it unites individuals. Whatever the case, it gives an outlet to my composition.
Furthermore, in that lies a reason. Composing. Writing to fortify others, to challenge their reasoning, and to give a feeling of sympathy. To tell them they are not the only one. Perhaps it just to give the world know I a chance to give a damn!
Unquestionably, there are times I fear not being found on the off chance that I kick the bucket and I am separated from everyone else. Note it isn't a dread of kicking the bucket. I figure I simply don't need the rot of my physical self to stink up the place. Dread of not being found on the off chance that I fall and harm myself. Dread of awakening and having nothing to do, no place to go. Dread of never again having a reason or explanation behind my reality. That is genuine dread! Never again being of esteem.
The dread of not having a reason, an explanation behind living is so exceptionally obvious in nearby diners where people go for their breakfast. They exist and that is about all. There is an absence of imperativeness. They don't appear to appreciate the sustenance they are ingesting and they scarcely snort as the server brings the espresso pot around for a refill. Some are perusing a daily paper or a soft cover. You ever observe them turn the page? In all probability not. It's a disguise. A cover so nobody can see the void in their eyes.
So at about eighty-five what reason for living do I have? I never again educate, and as a healer, my customers are rare. A lady, my age, as of late uncovered that Face Book gave her an existence. I flinched. Do I truly need to know what somebody, most of the way around the globe, had for their supper? Or then again that they have been "honored" with a 6th grandchild? The contention over the estimation of the Internet keeps running from lack of interest to irreplaceable. Some asserting it isolates family life while others guarantee it unites individuals. Whatever the case, it gives an outlet to my composition.
Furthermore, in that lies a reason. Composing. Writing to fortify others, to challenge their reasoning, and to give a feeling of sympathy. To tell them they are not the only one. Perhaps it just to give the world know I a chance to give a damn!
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