Early morning thinking isn’t as profound in spring and summer; sunlight dissipates, reduces musings to a silly few.
Thinking of the writing, stories, unpublished mid-age angst and anger possibly lost within a metal box, and yet, where would they be if computers weren’t invented?
From there to here, or rather, hair. Hair, cut off in inches, trimmed a bit or fallen out (a constant process, so I understand)–where does it go? Will some of it outlast me? Still be in the backyard, in the car, beyond Connecticut and possibly in Michigan, or Florida, or up north into New Hampshire and Vermont, wherever I have been once, shedding hair.
Looking outward from inside me, embarrassed by self-centeredness of thought, I see the birds. A thought occurs: all have two feet, two wings, feathers and a beak, yet some eat worms, others seeds, some flying bugs or carrion. I wonder why? All cats large and small prefer a fresh-killed animal.
Back to me and hard drives. Lost lore or starting new and fresh? What difference does it really make?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology