It's had been raining. But it's over now.
I sit in my chair, in my room while distant voices chatter beyond the closed door.
I'm supposed to be resting. But the pain won't let me find peace. So I sit here. It's not so bad this way.
I like being close to the open window, it's low enough that I can see outside.
I can smell the rain.
I can hear the soft taps of the drops that drip. Leaves outside my window, that little tree has grown so big.
The voices inside become more distant, as I lay my head against the window sill.
Leaning side to side isn't so bad. It's bending that hurts so much.
I look up into the greenery. Some leaves poking in past the open window; I have no screen to stop them.
Dark wet branches twisting upward. My, the little tree is almost to the peak of the roof!
Has time sped on so swiftly? What was I doing that I forgot to notice?
Memories like an out of focus movie drift in a jumble of fleeting images.
I look out at the pale sky, inhale the wet moist earthy scents and feel the longing of my youth.
Of running in the rain, the smell of fresh cut grass and the freedom of being outside in the country.
The hikes taken through the woods, of wading into the river to spear or net trout heading upstream.
I close my eyes and let myself feel and hear...
The cool caress of the air, cleaned by the rain, I can smell the sharp scents of autumn ever so faintly.
The hum of the factories and the highway traffic that's not far away is like white noise.
The conversations of people, the wet sound of car tires on still wet roads, the noise of children and pets.
All drown out the sound of the raindrops that fall to the leaves...
While I sit by the window...
I look and see that night has been creeping closer as I listened in my own darkness.
I wonder sadly, when along the stream of life, I got cast up onto the shore.
Watching as it flows on past while I long to return to it's vibrant currents.
When did I get old?
I've discovered that it's nothing to do with age, experience or knowledge...
Old is that feeling of being invisible. Of looking at your image in the mirror and not knowing who it is that is looking back.
It's not a number, it's a state of mind or rather a state of being.
One does not suddenly "become" old upon reaching their 50th, 60th or higher birth year.
One can become old and yet be very young in years.
I slide the window closed as the darkness grows within my room. I dislike being a donor to the blood drinking insects.
Though of late I'd willingly cross over if a real Lestat or other such type made me the offer.
To escape the confines, the limitations and restrictions that divide me from the rush of life - How could I say no?
If I'm to sup from the glass, filled with the life blood, harvested from the vibrant masses, then so be it.
Barbaric, perhaps. But not inhuman. We do far worse to one another in the course of a day. than any creature or beast.
Of late I sometimes wonder if we have become something less than human, if humane be the ideal of the word.
For in the darkness, with the screen of my monitor the only light, I wonder when we became so lost in ourselves.
A small knock at the door, it opens slowly and my youngest peeks inside.
He smiles at me, seeing that I'm up and awake. He covers his eyes with his hand.
I close mine as he turns on the light. When I open my eyes the light is only a little harsh, he's dimmed it down.
With my vision fading, I can't make out details, not even up close. But he comes to my chair and hugs me.
"Do you feel better now?" he asks me.
I can't help, but smile and reply, "Yes, much better now my dear."
It is a lie, but one I can live with. I don't want him to know my pain. I don't want him to worry.
Yet I long to be the woman I once was, before my world came crashing down.
I want to be the mother he deserves, one that can play, run and swing him around.
I do not see the mother I once was, now I appear as a grandmother, when my reflection I see.
Time has taken a toll far greater than I wish to pay, relentless stress and ill health have added their price too.
A voice calls out from another room, my young son kisses my cheek and dashes off in reply.
I look at my computer, the monitor glows and I am thankful for the one thing that I can still claim.
Through the connections, the networks and resources that are dug up like vast pirate treasures...I live.
In that world with no form, I can be all that I once was and become even more than I can physically here.
Despite the cards dealt that cheated me from being as active as I used to be, chaining me in pain...
I can claim the key of knowledge, the crown of mental determination to achieve what I set out to do.
Road blocks, obstacles are breached by the technology that offers me some small freedoms.
My victory is bittersweet, for I still long for the days of my memory - when I was truly free....
But when one is captive, one relishes what small tastes of freedom one can get...even if it's not really real...
I missed out on watching the rain...
Maybe I'll get to next time.
I sit in my chair, in my room while distant voices chatter beyond the closed door.
I'm supposed to be resting. But the pain won't let me find peace. So I sit here. It's not so bad this way.
I like being close to the open window, it's low enough that I can see outside.
I can smell the rain.
I can hear the soft taps of the drops that drip. Leaves outside my window, that little tree has grown so big.
The voices inside become more distant, as I lay my head against the window sill.
Leaning side to side isn't so bad. It's bending that hurts so much.
I look up into the greenery. Some leaves poking in past the open window; I have no screen to stop them.
Dark wet branches twisting upward. My, the little tree is almost to the peak of the roof!
Has time sped on so swiftly? What was I doing that I forgot to notice?
Memories like an out of focus movie drift in a jumble of fleeting images.
I look out at the pale sky, inhale the wet moist earthy scents and feel the longing of my youth.
Of running in the rain, the smell of fresh cut grass and the freedom of being outside in the country.
The hikes taken through the woods, of wading into the river to spear or net trout heading upstream.
I close my eyes and let myself feel and hear...
The cool caress of the air, cleaned by the rain, I can smell the sharp scents of autumn ever so faintly.
The hum of the factories and the highway traffic that's not far away is like white noise.
The conversations of people, the wet sound of car tires on still wet roads, the noise of children and pets.
All drown out the sound of the raindrops that fall to the leaves...
While I sit by the window...
I look and see that night has been creeping closer as I listened in my own darkness.
I wonder sadly, when along the stream of life, I got cast up onto the shore.
Watching as it flows on past while I long to return to it's vibrant currents.
When did I get old?
I've discovered that it's nothing to do with age, experience or knowledge...
Old is that feeling of being invisible. Of looking at your image in the mirror and not knowing who it is that is looking back.
It's not a number, it's a state of mind or rather a state of being.
One does not suddenly "become" old upon reaching their 50th, 60th or higher birth year.
One can become old and yet be very young in years.
I slide the window closed as the darkness grows within my room. I dislike being a donor to the blood drinking insects.
Though of late I'd willingly cross over if a real Lestat or other such type made me the offer.
To escape the confines, the limitations and restrictions that divide me from the rush of life - How could I say no?
If I'm to sup from the glass, filled with the life blood, harvested from the vibrant masses, then so be it.
Barbaric, perhaps. But not inhuman. We do far worse to one another in the course of a day. than any creature or beast.
Of late I sometimes wonder if we have become something less than human, if humane be the ideal of the word.
For in the darkness, with the screen of my monitor the only light, I wonder when we became so lost in ourselves.
A small knock at the door, it opens slowly and my youngest peeks inside.
He smiles at me, seeing that I'm up and awake. He covers his eyes with his hand.
I close mine as he turns on the light. When I open my eyes the light is only a little harsh, he's dimmed it down.
With my vision fading, I can't make out details, not even up close. But he comes to my chair and hugs me.
"Do you feel better now?" he asks me.
I can't help, but smile and reply, "Yes, much better now my dear."
It is a lie, but one I can live with. I don't want him to know my pain. I don't want him to worry.
Yet I long to be the woman I once was, before my world came crashing down.
I want to be the mother he deserves, one that can play, run and swing him around.
I do not see the mother I once was, now I appear as a grandmother, when my reflection I see.
Time has taken a toll far greater than I wish to pay, relentless stress and ill health have added their price too.
A voice calls out from another room, my young son kisses my cheek and dashes off in reply.
I look at my computer, the monitor glows and I am thankful for the one thing that I can still claim.
Through the connections, the networks and resources that are dug up like vast pirate treasures...I live.
In that world with no form, I can be all that I once was and become even more than I can physically here.
Despite the cards dealt that cheated me from being as active as I used to be, chaining me in pain...
I can claim the key of knowledge, the crown of mental determination to achieve what I set out to do.
Road blocks, obstacles are breached by the technology that offers me some small freedoms.
My victory is bittersweet, for I still long for the days of my memory - when I was truly free....
But when one is captive, one relishes what small tastes of freedom one can get...even if it's not really real...
I missed out on watching the rain...
Maybe I'll get to next time.
