Confused.

Every time I shiver in the chill winds of spring I take comfort from the fact that summer is not far away. But then a voice whispers in my ear and tells me that when I get to the end of summer, winter won’t be far away. And then I ’gin to be a-weary of the cycles and wonder why we have to put up with them. Summer comes and winter comes and there’s nothing most of us can do about it.

The rich are different, of course. They can own properties in various parts of the world and have permanent summer if that’s what they want. They can live in comfort and security the whole year round.

But then I wonder what the point of being comfortable is. What purpose does it serve? You see, I can’t divest myself of the notion that a life is supposed to have some sort of meaning and purpose. And if it does, it seems reasonable to speculate that it has something to do with learning. And what on earth can you learn from being comfortable? So maybe being rich isn’t such a good thing in the long run.

But then, the old depressions are deepening at the moment, especially the morning tendency to be depressed and dysfunctional. When I hear people say ‘I’m not a morning person,’ I have to reply: ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

And I seem to be getting the first hints of yet another health issue about to break on the eastern horizon, one which would probably lead me to shun people and live the life of a hermit even more than I do now. I wonder how on earth I’ve managed to go from being effectively a middle aged man to effectively an old one in the space of two short years, and whether this bodes a similarly speedy race to the line.

And that, of course, bring up the old question of whether the dead go anywhere and, if so, whether it’s somewhere I would want to go. That’s the point at which I begin to wish I could accept that death is total oblivion. Only I can’t.

Maybe I’ll be in a better mood tomorrow. Maybe I’ll even find something funny to say. It won’t be before lunchtime.