MANICHAEAN
02-16-2023, 06:45 AM
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.
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.