If so, then why do I feel like something odious stuck to the bottom of my shoe? No strength, no drive, no ambition, no desire, other than to sit on my lotus leaf and contemplate? The current has swept by me, leaving just a muddy swirl to mark its passing. I seem to be awaiting the time when I have nothing left to contemplate when all of my ideas have been explored as far as I am able when the well runs dry. What to do when there is nothing new on the horizon or my vision has grown too dim to see or I have hashed and rehashed all the old stories? Where is the savour, where is the zest? What more have I to add? I keep silently asking these questions, shouting with my ineffectual gestures praying that someone with a sympathetic ear will hear, or an observant eye will see. Is it vain to want a touch of validation for a life whose arc may not have been stellar but was at least adequate?

I am just so gut-wrenchingly tired. 

Not Dead Yet

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