I shouldn't even be writing this morning and may not. I'm a physical and emotional wreck. I walked yesterday, two and a half miles, the furthest I've gone since Thanksgiving. Fine. Except I couldn't sleep for the pain in my knee last night. No matter which way I twisted or turned, within minutes, the pain would start to grow. And so I'd roll. And turn. And twist. And, lying in pain alone in the dark without a succoring hand or word, one can't help but focus on one's mortality and the horrors that will surely come.
Somewhere in the night, my nose became stuffy. It began to run. And now my throat is scratchy. I haven't been around anyone for days, so it is, perhaps, just the result of not sleeping.
I will go back to bed, I guess, and eschew the day.
I wish I could be he charming, clever boy this morning, but I can't. I am a lunkhead.
One wonders at such moments, what's the point?
And in response to that question in the blank darkness of the bleak and solitary night. . . one hears only "the cold twinkling of a distant star. . . . "