I wrote some crap today. Spent a lot of time on it actually. But it's not finished yet. I think I might revamp the whole thing before I post it.
So, instead, you get this nonsense.
I think I might be what you'd call an old soul. An old something, that's for sure.
I'm like the stereotypical old woman, haunting her own house, alone, surrounded by photographs of days gone by, and of loved ones gone bye-bye. The memories they invoke - they bring her happiness, or they bring her sadness. But they always bring her something. And something can be everything, when the alternative is nothing.
So what if my photographs are all in my head? That makes little difference, I think.
I'm so glad that it's finally warm outside. I can go out and sit on my swing in the dark, when it's warm. I like it out there. I can be completely alone with my thoughts, or I can imagine that I'm not alone, that someone sits beside me, and the darkness of the night hides my deception from myself.
Sometimes people worry about me. They don't need to do that.
I'm just fine.
I think I'm just acting my age.