Blaming feels like a comfort. An escape. Complaining pretends to soothe. But it's just a siren calling from the sea to drown you. Everyday I stay on my no-complaints diet. Or I try.
I just need to say Good-bye. To stop the aging that the leathery finger of failure beckons to me from the shadows. Hooded, yellow eyes, fear, "come here, James. Stay with me for awhile. Stay with me for part of your life so neither of us are alone." The finger... barely out of the shadows. Come here.
Goodbye.
Good stuff.
