PASSION.
As lay in bed that early February morning, the chaos of thoughts he had grown to expect as normal first evolved and then dissipated in his mind. In a way he did not fear the process; what was perhaps an involuntary mental purging of a life substantially spent. He had drunk well from the cup, and now this was the start of a final journey.
Of course, there were: plans, residual aspirations, bucket lists; call them what you will. But there was also every morning the remorseless appreciation that this was the last leg.
What was novel was a current examination of past failures; as up to now he had cocooned himself in the warmth of endeavours achieved, women loved, and a fortune made.
It was now almost ironic, almost perverse; the reality of retirement, of liaisons planned that the body could not achieve, and a focus on dispersing his wealth where he wanted it to go, prior to the inevitable demise.
Hemingway shot his brains out when he realised, he could write no more. A bit drastic, but then the relentless diminishing of a man's faculties is, (if nothing else), demeaning.
It had rained during the night and there was a slight breeze he could discern in the garden. No leaves now, or flowers. Spring yet seemed too far away.
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