There’s a bend in my mind. Or is it a mind in my bend.
Either way it’s confusing.
Words used to come freely, gushing out sometimes and unable to control them I’d let them go and they’d saturate my page.
There’d be a jumble of letters, some forming words and others sitting there looking puzzled knowing not what to do with themselves.
When I was younger my mind was as straight as an arrow.
I knew where I was going and where I’d come from.
Now I am older I am not sure where I am.
Things start being forgotten. The butter isn’t in the fridge, the sugar is where the coffee used to be as its gone walkabout along with the salt and pepper.
Is it any wonder my writing is suffering?
I blame the bend. I don’t know where it come from, I didn’t invite it in, it just turned up one day and settled in before I knew it was there.
Now there’s a curve in everything.
As I write at this moment I’m not sure where I will end up, as if to end up somewhere might well be an achievement. Trouble is if I do achieve anything will I recognize it?
Up ahead I see the bend beckoning me, like I should feel enticed, captivated by the charm it is trying to bestow on me.
Then again it could be an element of me advancing through life, uncovering the true me, whoever that might be.
I think I’ll go with the bend, see where it takes me after all, what’s life without a bend or two to negotiate?