Free to Write

And the moral of the story is, on a planetary scale, the longer you live, the more you feel alien to everything, especially when the young people find you weird and out of it. When you mention your childhood heroes, people, places or incidents from the past, not recognizing all those names, places, or events, they pin your utterings on the dysfunction of your brain. So what do you do? You take refuge in your knitting, your crocheting, or your re-reading old books. That is, if your sight is still sharp enough.

Even if not, your eyes devour the world without actually seeing it, since there are a few more breaths left in you. And soon it becomes clear you belong with your own generation, the deceased and long-gone. You poor soul, you who is left behind, you may end up talking to yourself all the time, as you do now when alone.