The Sea and the Old Man

Every subject, in part, concerns aging. 

I should have more to say when I come to write here. I tried writing in the morning but that did not seem to improve it. I am out of practice and have lost my focus. Maybe I've just fucked around too much. I've lost the ability to be serious in the right way. I read good writers; it leaves me troubled. 

Should I tell you about my day?

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Perhaps that is all I have today - a fragment of observation and a fragment of a memory. I should tell the exciting early days of my life in Orlando. The 90s. Before I was corrupted by NYC. I might not believe it myself any more. Or, I might not be able to tell the stories as they deserves to be told. I would lie here or there, or minimize, pretend it was not as it truly was. Yet, even with that, some of it would still seem unbelievable. I have often had more than I needed or deserved, yet somehow have run empty of everything. 

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