Where'd it go?

I seemed to have lost my ability to write? It's very scary. Words used to flow, now I sputter through each and every sentence and nothings sounds right. What happened to my gift? Where'd it go?

Savor Each Second

Now that darkness is starting to close in, I feel a real need to latch on to reality. I even feel guilty whenever I drank too much wine because with blurred vision comes blurred memory. And now that I've lost more eyesight once again, I want to savor every second, every sight, every smell, every taste.

Either Or

Now that I have convictions, I have no companions. For the life of me, I cannot decide whose company is the loneliest.

A new day

After reading my last entry, I've decided to change. No more looking back, no more trying to find myself, no more wondering what I should be doing. From now on, I'm just going to do; going to be whatever I am at the moment.

Just before posting this, I read a quote by the Dalai Lama that reinforced my new attitude.

"The most important benefit of patience consists in the way it acts as a powerful antidote to the affliction of anger - the greatest threat to our inner peace, and therefore our happiness. The mind, or spirit, is not physical, it cannot be touched or harmed directly. Only negative thoughts and emotions can harm it. Therefore, only the corresponding positive quality can protect it."

Lost

I can no longer move. My heart is froze with fear. I have faced the evil that lies within and it frightens me.

There's nothing more tragic than a man who has lost his way; who can no longer trust his heart to find it. Should I speak of myself as tragic? It is a sad state of affairs that I do . I am lost in a forest, hiding behind each tree is danger. I am afraid to walk on and afraid to stand still, not knowing what sort of beast is lurking just out of sight to prey on me.

Once, a long time ago, I was on a path. I knew where I was going and I knew the way home. Now, I am lost.

The Last Of Our Days

At one time or another we all ask ourselves how we will spend the last of our days. Will they come in springtime? Will the smell of honeysuckle and the sound of birds chirping fill the air? Will you look to see a grandchild running off into your woods, or watch the cattle move slowly across the field? Though we speak of it not to our neighbors the thought plagues us daily, if not hourly. But we come to terms to with it; we know it must come. And in some odd way, we look forward to it; the end of strife; the end of struggle. Somehow we think that if there is something beyond, it must be restful. Occasionally, we breathe a sigh of relief, knowing it will come and that we don’t have to arrange it; we don’t have to send out the invitations or double check the guest list; we don’t have to do anything but wait. And there’s some comfort in that. It’s one decision we don’t have to make.

America The Beautiful

The frost covered the fields across from our house as we pulled out the driveway just past dawn. The mostly-full moon shined bright in the pale morning sky. I turned the stereo on and "A Whiter Shade Of Pale," by Procol Harum filled the air. I sipped coffee from a go-mug and looked at Leslie, her skin smooth against the mist rising from the land. The thought of how fortunate I am did not escape me.

We drove slightly uphill till we reached the peak of a small rise on the highway toward Russeville. When the road leveled out, a panoramic picture of rolling land lay before me, reminiscent of the English countryside; trees sprinkled the fence lines and filled the far-off hills framing the horizon.

There were signs of commerce along the route amidst the country homes dotting the landscape. I wondered what it'd be like for someone from Europe to see this part of Kentucky for the first time. I often complain about living in Kentucky. "I'd rather be in Europe," I've told my friends upon many a gathering. And if the truth be told, I entertain this thought almost daily.

I like Europe because the people there seem to me to be much more broadminded. But then again, I've never lived in Europe; I've only visited there. No doubt that it's not as grandiose as I make it out to be. I'd imagine it's much like America; views change as often as the scenery. Certainly the French, with their love for wine and insatiable appetite for sex, would be much more accepting of the liberal minded than the Italians who live in the shadow of Roman Catholicism. They, much as we who live in the southern states of America, never escape the all-seeing eyes of the church; ours, of course, is Southern Baptist.

The English have conservative and liberal political parties, as we do. So they too, must be fraught with frivolous arguments of who-knows-best. But I must admit, there's a great advantage to having a pub on every corner, as England does, and trains and buses in even the smallest of villages. So, I cannot totally escape the fantasy of owning a farm in the English countryside. But what would an Englishmen think of this view I'm seeing right now, or a Frenchmen or an Italian? No doubt that they would be no less enchanted watching a beautiful woman drive them faithful toward Russellville. And when they'd return home, they'd tell their friends America is beautiful. And yes, I can verify she is. I'm lucky to have known her.