Reset Forty-Nine, Day One Hundred Fifty
Oct. 23rd, 2023 08:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphSunday turned rainy, and I stayed inside and enjoyed the sounds of it and occasionally looked out the window to see the black wetness of the pavement and the bright beads dripping from the tips of leaves. Ten years ago I might have waxed poetic over such sensory stimuli, but my aged brain is less adept at such things, and the place I've come to be in is less conducive to poetry. Maybe somebody else would have the means to turn this Saturday into something literary, but I see that guy in the mirror who is not the guy I was, and I know it won't be me making word jewelry to convey the atmosphere of a rainy autumn afternoon in the mini-metropolis.
This guy I appear to be now just kicked back, happy to be able to enjoy not needing to do anything, and probably willing to do nothing even if doing things were possible, or even if they were needful. Now that it's a weekday and thing are possible again, and there are in fact things that are needful of doing, I still doubt I'll do them, and for much the same reason I won't be becoming the poet laureate of this prosaic backwater. It just isn't in me to do things anymore. I'm surprised I'm even still writing journal entries. It's not like they would really be missed if they weren't there, or as though once my brain has deteriorated fully I'd be able to find anything in them other than the gibberings about boring places I've never heard of by some oddball stranger I'll never meet.
I'd probably be better employed getting a cat and spending every remaining day attending to it. Then, once I get to the point where I remember nothing, it would be like having the joy of thinking I was getting a new cat every day. The cat would remember me, and I'd think how lucky I am to get such a friendly new cat! That would not be a half bad way to run out a wasted life.
This guy I appear to be now just kicked back, happy to be able to enjoy not needing to do anything, and probably willing to do nothing even if doing things were possible, or even if they were needful. Now that it's a weekday and thing are possible again, and there are in fact things that are needful of doing, I still doubt I'll do them, and for much the same reason I won't be becoming the poet laureate of this prosaic backwater. It just isn't in me to do things anymore. I'm surprised I'm even still writing journal entries. It's not like they would really be missed if they weren't there, or as though once my brain has deteriorated fully I'd be able to find anything in them other than the gibberings about boring places I've never heard of by some oddball stranger I'll never meet.
I'd probably be better employed getting a cat and spending every remaining day attending to it. Then, once I get to the point where I remember nothing, it would be like having the joy of thinking I was getting a new cat every day. The cat would remember me, and I'd think how lucky I am to get such a friendly new cat! That would not be a half bad way to run out a wasted life.
