As I gaze upon these forums, thoughts of yesteryear , times long gone, flit accross mine eyes. Do I chase my youth in vain with such endeavors? Facing the enevitible decline, as I know I must, am I wasting what lucidity I have left reaching for this unatainable thing?

The curse is not so much  the fog and loss of clarity. The curse is the memories of a time it was not so, and knowing  what I have lost. There was a time, seems so, of a confident stride, a sharp, clear, mind, and a purpose straight and obvious. I remember these things and know them to be true as I gaze upon the world through this dark, thick, shroud.

There are precious mornings I awaken to that old self, if but for a few hours, half a day. I work on my figures to focus my mind, fighting  to hang on to the vision but a few hours more. In the end the things I create a mere shadow of what I once could have done. Back to the dull grey, a half life you might say, where I function with the efficiency of learned wrote, but no vision, no spark. Thoughtless, mindless, grey.

Irascible and ill tempered, for no apparent reason. I imagine the horror that lies ahead on this road. There are no side roads, no turn offs, and walk it I must.  I am so tired.

Tell me, what month is this? Is it the month of rain? The month of sorrows, regretts, a month of death waiting to be reborn to the light.

The darkness gathers so, deep and cloying. Yet so soft and inviting, like the soft hushed sound of falling snow, the warm sweet sleep in a feather bed. Come it says, sleep, peace, rest for the weary

A thought flutters, like a bird caught by chance indoors, smashing, battering, frantic to escape. Run! Get up! Fight damn you. Open your eyes and see. 'Tis the spirit fighting on. How long the spirit?

Are we dead yet?

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A HOMELAND FOR POSER FINALLY