This painting by artist friend John Pore graces a wall in our greatroom. I believe it pretty much reflects the stage of life in which I find myself. For the curbstone, think my soft chair on which I sit; for the bag, the keyboard. The birds are the interwebby thing and the popcorn random bits of information.
So long as my fingers are agile enough, ditto my mind, I shall doubtless sit here in a charade of real life, pretending desperately that I am still involved in the world in which I exist. This is an important thought, perhaps much more significant than it might appear. For it is so easy to be deluded into believing that what happens on the screen in front of me is real life. Meanwhile, the muscles atrophy and so, I fear, will the mind by and by, and then where or who will I be?