Much of my pliable energy—the strengths on which I have relied for most of the last 70+ years—have become hard and brittle over time. Now, all the forms’ energies—including physical, mental, and emotional—starve for oxygen beneath years of thick accumulated grit and dust. The heat and desiccation of time has scorched and dried every layer of my experience into impermeable protective coatings, each one as hard as diamonds and as strong as steel. When once I could look into a mirror and see someone young and strong and aching for wisdom, today, I see an old man at the nadir of weakness and in the full bloom of stupidity. I see someone whose seeds of intellect have dried in disuse and whose power has been replaced by infirmity. I am not alone in squandering my potential and maximizing the damages caused by my most egregious flaws. It seems to me most human beings allow themselves to wither and decay as they approach their peaks, effectively giving up on themselves at precisely the point when their misspent energies are most needed. They waste their accrued stockpiles of money, time, knowledge, capabilities, and all their remaining resources just moments before those collections could have enabled them to avoid complete ruin. The rest of us—who have yet to reach that point of no return—watch in pity as we, too, unknowingly cross that brutal threshold that cannot easily be crossed twice. But the fact that it is not easy does not mean it is impossible. It means only that the odds are against us and that—probably—we will not try to avoid crossing it a second time.
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The clock on my computer screen reads a quarter past two in the morning. I have been awake for at least forty-five minutes and out of bed for half an hour. I hoped, when I decided to get up and sit at my computer, I would succeed in documenting the thoughts on my mind; a success I have not enjoyed for the last several days. I tried on a few occasions, but to no avail. Here I am though, trying again. Hoping I might be able to slash away some of the underbrush I have let accumulate…replacing it with at least a few thoughts worth having and even fewer worth sharing. The value of my words might be considerably greater, I realize, were I to discard the negative thoughts they c0ntain. But a shroud of positivity remains a shroud. No matter how much thought I give it, I am unable to replace a negative shroud with a positive veil…or a positive sheet…or even a neutral thumbprint on a large white blanket. Fifteen minutes of clear liquid…flavorless juice…from a piece of translucent citrus fruit. Blandness, I suppose, is more appealing than annoying or threatening. And that is a useless observation; if, indeed, it can be called an observation. It may be more appropriate to call it useless label or a transitory judgment. Or a tomato. It might be just as useful to call it a cake pan or a circular saw. Or an introductory course in portraiture with oils.
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My niece is coming for a visit late today. That knowledge should help improve my mood. My mood really should not need improvement, though. But reading what I just wrote tells me the mood needs some work. Once she gets here, though, I suspect my mood will improve of its own accord. That’s just how it works.
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The thing to do, I think, is to try to get back to sleep. Maybe I’ll give that a shot. And maybe I’ll write more later today or tomorrow or some other time.
