In Transition

In a board sense, I am a whore, for living as I please, indulging in pleasures that I can (adapted from Blindness by Jose Saramago). I write as I wish, speak as I deem fit. Tomorrow is another day to savour, yesteryears are remnants of what I was, or are they? Here I am in my room: is it the same one I have been living in like, for the past 15 years? Apart from a few clothes in the closet, a few more CDs and books, am I still what I was? A few old friends lost, and at times, or rather most of the time, I am alone. New acquaintances are made, but things are never the same, that I see. I miss the old me: the carefree one, the one who seized the moment, and saw no tomorrow. I rather be “blind” then, in that way. My future paints a grey portrait of a grizzled, shrivelled old man in winter – the season of solitude - before resting for eternal under cold, soiled stone. And I am in transition.