Writings in the Sand

Morning Lament

I don't know what this post is, maybe it's a lament. Maybe it's a longing for the days when I could concentrate all my focus on the computer, when the phone didn't ring so often and there were fewer voices calling my name. At my age I should be much more lonely and forgotten.

That pulls me up short. There's a thought that yanks on the reins of my mind's wandering. There will be a day when these interrupting voices are silenced in death and even fade in memory. There will be a time when no one will ask my opinion because I am too old and out of touch. Then I will be truly alone and with all the time in the world.

When that happens, I probably won't be blogging, or writing poetry or concocting wild stories except in my confused reveries. I won't be phoned or sought after for advice. I will be lonely and forgotten, but maybe I won't know it. It's odd to think that dementia might be the way to escape the inevitability of being forgotten by others - to simply forget about them, too.