TIME TICKS AWAY

I don't even feel like writing that I don't feel like writing. Writing weighs on me. It is a constant burden. Yesterday I didn't rise from bed until two in the afternoon because I didn't want to face the laptop sitting on my table. Anger emanates from the screen because I won't appease its insatiable hunger.

I'm reading more than at any time in my life. I'm hoping that Philip Roth or Pablo Neruda and the other authors whose books occupy half of my bed will inspire a creative spark. 

At this point in my life existence has become a game. That perspective doesn't include my three sons. They still need me, particularly the youngest since he's only 16. His needs are almost as insatiable as the laptop. The older two are ascending the ladder, but they still can use the old man's counsel.

The game part is divided into two categories. Firstly, there is the numbers of years I will survive after retirement. I have completed my fourth year. There are colleagues who didn't get one or two years under their belts before they departed. There are the others who dote on their grandchildren because they are good for little else.

Secondly, there is the goal of attaining 80 and still have game and my mojo. Even under the best of circumstances, particularly for a male, this is not an easy objective, but when you're 70, you have to hope for the best. 

A person who reaches 80 after a full life has few complaints when it's time to exit. There is much that one can accomplish in this last decade. Every endeavor that I am presently pursuing offers the opportunity to grow. For starters, I haven't penned my best paragraph yet.

I suppose it's the athlete in me that spurs me forward in these competitions against the clock. My biggest regret is that I waste so much time when I have no time to lose.