- there was a time when i was more impassioned.
each breath was fervid, full of life, full of yearning for that goal just out of reach. for days i scrawled words across the page, smearing ink and weaving tales with eyes wild and full of wonder. i was happier, then. livelier. i longed for nothing but to write, uninterrupted, lost to my stories. i had a clear and straightforward vision, a dream that meant more to me than my well-being, than the oxygen that kept my heart beating. i had purpose.
that feeling is lost to me, now.
when i wake, my fingers no longer ache to punch the keys of the typewriter. the feeling of paper against skin is a ghost of a memory. i have no stories. i have no muse. the flame of love that once burned for my work has been snuffed out, the coals dark and cold. it has been a very long time since i have laid out my soul on the pages of my manuscripts. i still long, but i long to feel that wondrous drive once again, for even a moment. "to live without vision is to perish," a wise woman once said to me. i believe now that she was right. each day, i grow farther from the dreams of my childhood. each day, i feel the numb weariness of time sink into my bones. soon, it will be too late. soon, those creative bursts will be lost forever.
where do i go? i am an old man. i never finished schooling, and few seek to employ someone so long past his prime. i am like a luxury vehicle--classy and well-known in youth, but forgotten with each passing model, collecting dust until my inner workings can no longer even function. i'm hardly even worth spending the money to scrap. there is no profit in me.
perhaps there is nowhere to go. perhaps this is how i will spend the remainder of my days: staring out the window at the rain as i sip my coffee, thinking back to the good old days. the golden years. what happens now matters not, i feel.
i would say these are the things i will regret most when i die, but i perished long ago.
all i am is the empty shell of great and beautiful dreams.
[comments are appreciated.]
