Growing Old

It only became worse as the night grew old. The wrinkles on my face became more apparent. The fireplace yawned, remaining cold. I stepped ravishingly into the river, and it took me far; leading me to the elegant unknown, shaking as I grab the doorknob ever so silently.

I grow tired of this book; I've judged the cover well. I throw this one off to the side, over the arm of the recliner. Descending like the excitement of a firecracker that just erupted. The cheers have died down.

Let us befuddle ourselves, and figure what next. Now I’m wishing I was the firecracker. Something the crowd has waiting for, something that lights the face of youth a neon red color. Deeming myself of importance, and releasing myself into the open atmosphere. The climax, the glory, the smiles. And even the morning after; when you find yourself headed to the smoky street to discover accumulated annual ecstasy.

Hold the wire, what was I doing? Or even conversing about? All these thought processes seemingly unconnected. Is there even words for that? Thinking of thinking? Consciousness. I feel that perhaps this isn’t a body, but rather a vessel in which my life force and thought processes come to be at peace; a department in which they can comprehend all that defines existence. What if I’m not intelligent enough for the truth? What If I simply can’t understand, or cope for that matter?

It’s all just a puzzle for me. Not those complicated ones, but those ten piece ones you honestly can’t figure.