Forgetting

Seven o'clock on a Friday night. What to do? I wonder. I used to know. At some point, though, it seems you just forget how to live. Not everyone, of course, but most. It is not that I don't know what to do. I know too many things to do and want them all at once, and I haven't either the money or the time.

For a long while, I had a sailboat on the coast and spent many weekends there alone with food and drink and good books. I would sail to some cove or bay, cast anchor, and make my dinner while drinking the night's first rum. Eating under the stars, swaying at anchor, the halyards lightly tapping in the wind, reading by lamp light until the rum and wind and stars made it impossible any longer to stay awake. And then, crawling into my bunk, under the sleeping bag, alone with the shifting tides and currents, slightly waking to be certain I was still anchored, going back under, tired, happy.

The night is lovely, the air cooling and sweet. I will pour myself a drink and read. Perhaps I'll re-read. I've forgotten so much, it may all seem niew. But I must make plans, simple plans. I shan't go on this way.