Ending Sequence  By  W. Bruce Watson
The Emerald Pond

With nothing showing but his face, he floats in the still, emerald pond motionless amongst the lilies, his back arched, arms outstretched as in some kind of watery crucifixion.

A diaphanous water sprite hovers in the mist above him like a humming bird, touching him, caressing him, guiding him to shallower water with her gentle kisses. He shall live longer still. Youth's end.


Even though it's not as good a bed as his, he sleeps in hers when she's gone late at night, awaiting her return. It shows her that I miss her and that I love her, he murmurs sleepily to himself, besides it smells nice.

"You're getting to be a pain in the ass," he's sometimes told, "sleep in your own bed." And in his old man dreams, he lies sleeping upon the deck of a white ship. An imperceptible breeze stirs in the sails over his head bringing him the faint aroma of a distant place—serenity. Love's end.

A Victory for a Madman

Sometimes from within his shell, a tiny light illuminates the flaws and glitters through the cracks. Is he hatching still? Or did he die aborning long ago? Ensconced in a schizophrenic syntax, a chrysalis spun of mutterings, mad, finally, his babel insulates. Yet sometimes from within the blur of words, coherence, musings of joy and of loneliness, and will, briefly rampant—a victory, a remindance; he is in there still. Mind's end.
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
Copyright © 2011 W. Bruce Watson, Inc. All rights reserved.  
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