To What End?

I've just spent over an hour writing first one entry then another, both of which I had the good sense to delete.  One was a freshman essay on the benefits of sleep.  The other turned into a users guide on how to inject oil based anabolic steroids deep into muscle tissue.  Neither began the way they turned out, of course, but sprang from some half-witted idea in a sleepy brain as the slow dawn tried its best to bring the dull morning.  They had no lyricism, no magic.  They were not up to the wonder of today's photograph.  It is a beauty (rather than a thing of beauty), something I mark as an accomplishment. You don't know how many pictures meet the same fate as today's two unsuccessful entries.  When I think of the untold hours of work that go into this little blog. . . I think I could do something that would make money rather than cost it.  However. . . that is my peculiar petite charm. . . no?

It is a dangerous season, so I stay home, away from crowds, cooking my own meals, keeping my own company.  But there is no adventure in that, no chance of making stories and romance.  Again last night, I kept to two small drinks, the sort of quantity that doctors say is good for your health, the kind of sensible drinking sober people find exciting.  I am becoming full of vigor.  To what end, I wonder?  To stay home and cook and read?  I am meditative, I shall say.  It will be good to take a walk.