It’s 2:50 am, and I still can’t sleep.
When I first thought that I might be dying, I had this urge to do something with that because the experience seemed valuable, that enhanced appreciation for common things I wrote about earlier. I thought that if I could give that to others, even if for a day or two, then, that would be worth the effort. Naturally, there is the self-indulgent, chugging down of pity-porridge in frantic peristaltic waves aspect of it; however, overlook that if you would, please.
I’m sitting at my desk at home in the evening. Sue is downstairs straightening up after dinner, which I often try to help with, but she shoos me away most of the time because I think that she thinks that I make more of a mess in my inadequate battle against the after dinner entropy.
I’m thinking: What can I do? What will I do? There is the obvious of course. I will not work as hard and will spend as much time with Sue and my family as I can. But, aside from that: What can I do that might make a difference for others, if I have the time? Do I have a final special purpose? Should I write another book that few will read? Could I travel the world and give poorly attended motivational talks?
And, what did I choose to do with my subsequently dying breaths, but this:–an anonymous blog that anyone in the world can read, but nobody does because they don’t know about it. I like that. It’s funny. I like the irony of it. This probable pathological desire for an author (if I might call myself that) to communicate with an audience, to make a meaningful impact; and he talks to the world, but no one is listening.
Sue would like that. She would laugh. I can make her laugh and it is one of my most favorite sounds in the universe; but, even she can’t laugh at this because she doesn’t know. I tell her I’m journaling, which I am, it’s just that I’m journaling online, before the world, but it’s like a clear window glass. It’s there, but you look through it and don’t see it. But that’s okay. This is an outlet, my way weird way of thinking out loud, but it is nothing compared to my wife’s constant presence. She is my angel.
On November fourth, I typed “dyingman” into the Godaddy search engine. It was for sale for $2000. I tried “thedyingman”. Ta da. $15 for a year, which seemed ample for my purposes at the time. When the payment stops, it stops. I like blogs, have had several that never amounted to much, but it was one of my hobbies although this is a poor effort from an aesthetic standpoint as the template I used on my last site was upgraded and I didn’t want to take the time to re-learn it, so this is a basic wordpress template.
Unlike my prior efforts, I have been a faithful contributor to content thus far, in my hope to establish a record of thought that might cause others to think differently in some small measure. In truth, I think I am writing this for Sue, because I certainly couldn’t say what I want as well as I can write it. That is my curse:–I am struck dumb and mute in the face of spontaneity. I think she knows that when I look at her, and smile. She is the personification of Love. She is my reason for being.
Therefore, to my two friends I told about this site, if you’re still reading; if something happens to me, please tell her that this exists because she knows it not. Tell her that I love her. Tell her that forty years with her is worth more than eternity without.
Finally, I’m tired, six hours before a path diverged in a yellow wood..