I find that the goal
of all my writings
are a hope of some kind of ending

I hate to finish a book
at least one I read for pleasure

I have no considered writing a joy for its own continuation.

Because I pursue the resolution. The reason for all this striving.

Now I am not so sure that I have grasped the fullness of it at all.

Because the end of life is a sure fact

Should I not have my reason in every circumsance?

Or is that just my ego pretending to know a thing? A sort of self assured mask that I project on my daily amblings.

I have not been in love with life. But I am becoming increasingly aware that I am utterly alone. Not without people in my life. rather that my life is, and people are sounding boards for it. Not rules to bend for.

Its neverending this call and response.
I await its final notes.

But I cannot help but feel it was all for ought.

My desires tell me I have never lived more than a few moments.

My body claims decades.

My mind feels eons that will go on.

My spirit, oh where has my spirit gone?

I only remember my spirit when I can forget the voices of the rest.

Then I am free.