I used to feel like I had a vivid imagination but now I feel like reality has beaten it out of me and I’m slowly becoming an inane drone.
I try not to regret things. Bad or good, what happened has happened. Good things end, bad things end. I must be grateful because these things mold me into who I am. I am growing. I am a living, breathing person, made of flesh and blood and bone. I’m not who I was yesterday nor will I be the same person tomorrow.
On the way home this evening, I felt numb. The route home was slightly different but most of it was the same. There was the drive west on 36th Street instead of 41st Street but the rest was dark and wet.
It started raining but for a while, I didn’t notice. The rain made it difficult to see through the windshield but I didn’t turn on the wipers. At some point, it clicked.
It’s raining. Better put on the windshield wipers.
When I arrived at home, the cats were ready to play. Some of them sat and kept their distance while others approached me and made their presence abundantly known. After a few minutes, I went upstairs and settled in. My bedroom is off limits to them.
Should I turn on the TV, read or surf the internet? Decisions, decisions. Maybe I should think. Thinking is never one of the choices. It should be. Must keep thinking in mind for next time.
The nocturnal animals slosh around outside on the wet ground. It stopped raining. I don’t know. I took my anti-depressants and a sleep aid. I need to relax. I need to forget a few things.
A story for another time, perhaps?
He built a huge wall around his house. It’s an impressive wall, a wall that people admire.
But a crime has been committed. There is a good possibility that learning about what motivated the crime is beyond his impressive wall and in his stately manor.
“Mr. Apple, could you help us gather information about this crime? All we need you to do is knock a hole in your impressive wall. We only want to enter once and we assure you no one, and we mean no one, will ever use your hole again.”
Mr. Apple looks around at his impressive wall and says, “You don’t understand. If I knock a hole into my impressive wall I won’t be able to repair it. Anyone could come in. People could walk right in and do all sorts of unsavory things. I’m not saying you will but, I don’t know, you might.”
Law enforcement looks at Mr. Apple and says, “You’re being untrusting and unreasonable. We’re the good guys. Make that fucking hole, Mr. Apple.”
Sunday. I’ve never been keen on being home on Sundays. I always feel like I should be as lazy as I can be on Sundays but there is clearly always something to do.
The Walking Dead is on. I put it on. It’s streaming on my computer as I write this. The third window on my computer is open to a social network I use often.
I don’t feel myself today. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I sit beside a window overlooking a rural dirt road. Not many cars drive on it. It’s peaceful. I like it. There is no reason for me to move from my current position.
I noticed something recently and I’ve been keeping tabs on it. I noticed that I’ve been forgetting things minutes after they’ve come to mind. There are mornings when I’ve made coffee, poured it into a mug, added two sugars and milk to it and when I’ve gone back to the mug, I had forgotten if I’ve added sugar. I try hard to remember but I can’t.
There have been other instances. I’ve been driving and, all of a sudden, I am unsure as to whether I am heading to the office or heading home. It takes me what feels like an eternity to begin recognizing the route again.
With that said, I don’t know whether to be fearful of the prognosis or that I’m adjusting comfortably to this new state of being. I’ve built routines and have begun utilizing apps that help remind me of things. I’m still working on the Did-I-put-sugar-in-my-coffee-or-not thing. I’ll figure that out someday.
I’ve always wanted to write a story that began with “Once upon a time.”
There has never been a story that started with “Once upon a time” that hasn’t grabbed me. What will happen, I always ask myself?
And with that I am whisked away, like an old man’s hat being carried off by the wind. Like the hat, I have no idea where I’ll wind up but I’m sure to be a changed man once I arrive there.
I always have this feeling of desperation. I want to tell you everything. I wish I could tell you everything all at once and have it make sense but that’s impossible. I tell you so very little and I’m afraid that I’m shooting myself in the foot when I do.
I love you. You know this. In my heart I want to do everything in my power to be with you. Everything in my mind too. But doing everything in my power must include a contingency plan if being with me is not what you want. It’s all wrapped up in a sack like the kind you take to a camping trip.
This is a very important part of love; the ability to let the love of your life go on without you. I can do this. I know I can. It might kill my insides. It might rot my heart until it is soft and brown like the mud made by an incessant rain.