[Morning Freewrite]

Post-nasal drip.  As part of a cold, is it natural?  I don't know whether I hate it or simply don't like it.  It gives me a sore throat and makes breathing difficult.  Perhaps I really should be drinking more water so the fluid isn't so thick and sticky.

Interesting to have talked last night with Estil.  So many ideas of what I am.  How many are true and how many aren't true?  Things that I can't confirm and things that I could push into either truth or false.  An informative reading.  How much can I learn from it as a true thing?  How much can I learn from it as a false thing?  How much can I just learn?

Where where where am I going now?  Going.  Once again the location element creeps in.  By movement we mean things.  What do we mean?  Where are we going?  Where is my life taking me?  Where am I taking my life?  These things - how important are they?  How important would they be if I phrased them some other way?  In some other manner?  Is there a way to say things that would mean more and a way that would mean less?

Who shall I take as my role model?  Shall I take Thoreau who showed too little emotion?  Whitman who was too personal, less connected to the universal?  Shall I find succor in the writing of a Japanese author (So many good ones but what were their names???)  Shall I search away from the writing field...? But who can I know but through their writings?

Can a spirit guide or more than one help me?  Spirits are powerful creatures because they lack the physicality of bodies.  The constraints.  But in not living with our constraints they must lack something that we have (If only the meaning of mortality.)  What do spirit guides have to offer me?  Can they offer guidance?  Are they but a piece of my self-subconscious?

So many questions this morning.  No definites at the moment.  But I have a way to make definites I believe.  Right now, in this morning hour before the sun has properly kissed me I am a malleable liquid flowing through the many cracks and crevices of the possible futures.  But in another few minutes, hours, I shall harden with the approaching light.  In the approaching light.  I shall become a piece of directed being.  Until the next morning gives rise to renewed movement.

[End morning Freewrite]

Thought:  Why do we dislike growing old so much?  USA Today states: "Poet laureate, 95, refuses to 'grow old in spirit.'"  Why can't we grow old gracefully anymore?