This life has been nothing as I imagined. There have been constantly twisting turned and sharp drops; there have been upward struggles which have left me mangled and mutilated. There have been moments of sunshine, and reflective drops of rain. Yet each morning I arise, uncertain of what the day holds and my desire to just lay there in bed emerges with a vengeance which has left me exhausted before even attempting to toddle off to empty what needs emptying.
I say these things not to whine or too seek pity, for the life I live is mine. The directions I choose, though not always pleasant, are my choices. Yes, there are days where I wish my life would end and cease to be forever. There are days where I feel so stretched I fear my mind would break and all that has been absorbed and learned would spill out without making any sense to anyone.
Would that I could return to the simpler days. Ah…but when would those be?
Simpler in that I would have no responsibility other than to suckle and cry? Nay for that would be far to simple with no daring, no adventure, a bland existence.
Perhaps simpler in that I had few real responsibilities, only a few chores. The times when I could roam freely about the woods, fighting dragons, seeking hobbits and elves. Oh what pleasant times those were, though at the time, I knew it not. It was just part of living.
Living isn’t always easy, yet it must be done. Many are trapped in the mundanity of existing, having not yet chosen to live. Some have lived, and having tasted the powerful pungency of life, crave more while our bodies are no longer able.
Once I was young and, so I thought, indestructible. Now however…….I ache in places that once knew no pain; my movements require time to accomplish where before they were instantaneous. The stresses of my continuing day to day weigh on my wearied and battered body as burdensome chains.
My mind longs for the days of endless imagination and the energy and ability to enact each play which wast penned by my mind. Alas, the mind is quickly losing its focus and the plays in which it pens are coming fewer and farther between. “Such is life” I am told. Yet I cannot help but rail against this feebility and, creak though my joints might, still enjoy the play of imagination.
Young I was once, and wrote my thoughts with pen and paper, then used a typewriter to preserve them. Yet time, the Great Leveler, hast devoured them without so much as a belch. Alas, surely there is more to life than what is left contained in this aching shell.
Life, for me, seems out of context.