Rail, rail against the turning of the page.
All I see in the decades ahead – if decades I still have – is a river of grey water leading to the final cataract. I had entertained a slim hope that I might spend them in Avalon with a priestess, but that faint hope has now been finally scotched as of today. Avalon I might be able to keep, but I’ll be walking among the apple blossom alone. (I wonder: is that better than having an ageing wife, three grown up children, seven grandchildren, a house that is now paid for, a tidy little car that’s still under warranty, two toy poodles to sit on the back seat and whine, the company of people the same age who like to spend their time revelling in the good old days... Probably.)
OK, fair enough. It hurts, but now maybe I can start the slow process of getting back to my old, abnormal self. Problem is, I doubt that being abnormal sits well with the greyness to which I’m likely to be consigned.
I could do with writing something new, but there aren’t any seeds germinating at the moment. I suppose today’s developments free up the possibility of writing that post I avoided yesterday, the one that’s likely to alienate about 75% of the people who read this blog. Can I afford to lose them as well at the moment? We’ll see.
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