Recently I've had spurts and fits of trying to take things more seriously. I can never sustain these efforts. In the end, I'm too much the ambivalent person, unable to sustain passion. I'm not driven by any fiery will. I'm not driven by deep desires. I'm not driven at all. I just do whatever's in front of me to do, or I don't. I think a lot, though little seems to come of it. What becomes, I wonder, of fellows like me?
This is why, I think, I would rather lose physical function as I age than lose mental acuity. Thinking is my only real hobby and activity. "If your mind just blanked out, though," someone said to me recently, "you wouldn't know. You'd be content because you wouldn't know what you lost." That sounds so awful to me. Just terrible. I've never sought oblivion in any of its various dispensable forms. I've never wanted to forget, to lose myself, to abandon my mind. It's just not me.
In someone else's idea of the future I can see myself jogging at 60, head as empty as my happy smile. It isn't me. It may be happy and fit, but it isn't me.
Hello, friends. Thanks.
Later. Love.
