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 |   Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| I don't know what this post is, maybe it's a lament. Maybe it's a longing for the days when I could concentrate all my focus on the computer, when the phone didn't ring so often and there were fewer voices calling my name. At my age I should be much more lonely and forgotten. That pulls me up short. There's a thought that yanks on the reins of my mind's wandering. There will be a day when these interrupting voices are silenced in death and even fade in memory. There will be a time when no one will ask my opinion because I am too old and out of touch. Then I will be truly alone and with all the time in the world. When that happens, I probably won't be blogging, or writing poetry or concocting wild stories except in my confused reveries. I won't be phoned or sought after for advice. I will be lonely and forgotten, but maybe I won't know it. It's odd to think that dementia might be the way to escape the inevitability of being forgotten by others - to simply forget about them, too. |
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Not quite what I meant. "Pufts" was a sidelong reference to the famous dog show, Crufts