Maybe

Everyday, death comes a little closer. I see him just behind the tree, and just around the corner. He stalks me, but I don't care anymore. At least I think I don't. Would my defenses cause me to run were he to knock on my door right now? Or would I open it and ask him in? Ah, the relief from worry is alluring. To breathe that last breath, to finish that final struggle. It's so tempting. But there is nothing pretty about it: the decay, the rot, the stench. But at my age, and now that I no longer know how to provide security for my love ones, I cannot help but wonder if isn't time for me to cross that lonely bridge.

I have a good life, but full of worry. I suppose sloth has delivered me to the edge of ruin. But maybe it was the course I was supposed to run. Used to, before I became legally blind and when my hearing was better, I worked quite a bit; I ran the race. But now I tire of not knowing what lane to run in. I'm just tired. Tired of having troubles that I cannot pay for; tired of cars breaking down that I cannot repair; tired of worrying about the trees and tree limbs that need cutting and trimming; tired of first world problems, I suppose. But mostly I'm just tired of not knowing how to make money.

When Adam fell from grace, God punished him by demanding he earn his living by the sweat of his brow. I tire of wondering how.

Maybe today I'll walk down that path and hold hands with that old foe; maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.

Until that day.