in other words

Dear Pooboy,
As another hard time sets in, rather it's found a restful place already, I find myself romanticizing everything I do not have.
Mostly, I miss a community of outer consciousness. I miss the brutality of a true opinion on my poor choices. Depression in older age is hard to romanticize, itself. The weight is a truly physical feeling, coupled with real physical pain. The sadness has less hope in recovering, for the broader knowledge knows it will come again, possibly harder, if not just as hard.
I'm not pushed to write or make art. I'm allowed to spend days laying in bed atop a blanket too warm for comfort, studying the creases in the walls, but unable to later describe them. Floating in space is scarier now, because with age comes fear, sometimes.
I often imagine a heart attack or a possession of sorts, either brought on by my own weakness.
I'm far from things that I love. I'm far from my teachers, like you & water.
Time moves on without me. I am my own enemy. I can not bare a look in the mirror. I've changed. I no longer am given gratitude for my ideas, for myself. I'm instead left feeling ever so alone. I try to make peace with the stillness, but it challenges me. It makes me worry to fight it & move forward.
If I could be anywhere right now, it would be with you. I know you'll forever understand me. You will forever love me. It's here I go for the finest comfort I can find.
I miss you terribly.
as always.
Toothbrush