Every now and then I get the urge to write long messages. I find it strikes me mostly when I find myself in my inbox. I find myself more nostalgic than anything else when I see the endless bits of junk mail that litter what was once such an important means of contact for me with those I held dear. I can’t say I never receive messages from anyone. But it is rare. Like, two or three times a year rare. I almost fell into the cliche of calling out digression. But this is free form.

What went wrong is always on my mind. I feel the itch behind my eyes and finger tips. I could write some diatribe, some epic, some just, garbage really, and spew all the nonsense I’ve been holding onto for all these years but I know what that gets me. I know what happens after that. It’s always the same. they always leave shortly after. I’m starting to forget what this was all about.

I have the first line of the next discourse in philosophy. I don’t know if I’m ready just yet but I think this may very well be the last of the series. If nothing else, I won’t know once it’s over just like with those that came before it anyway. This is an utter mess of confusion.

His life, as I live it.