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Updated: 4 days ago

My Wrinkle in Time: My Memoirs . . . and a river runs thru!

As I write, I am much older now. My pen is Tenkara, an ancient Japanese-easy way to stalk my elusive trout. The serene cold mountain stream hypnotizes my senses as it swirls around my crinkly hip waders, smoothing out mirro-like. Looking down at my reflection, I don’t recognize that old man. Who is he? It can’t be me? Why I’m somewhere around forty or perhaps fifty, still young at heart! Seventy? Why, bring it! Bring on another day another challenge. What sordid adventure does eighty promise? Does my journey lie behind me, perhaps not? A trout rises in my setting sun.

Yet Who? Who am I really? I am. I am but a compilation of my dreams and memories and stories. A lone lonely soul, pensive in my winter. My life behind me for the most part. Perhaps, perhaps not? I am nothing, yet I am all of it and for that I am nostalgic. Oh but why? Why can I not stop time as it rapidly hurls me through the roar of the downstream rapids, toward my abyss! My brain is swilling, grasping for a twig to rite myself, or is it my pen/twig to write myself, wondering just what lies ahead, what is in store for me - now old. Where did life go?

What shall be, my last story. Hum? Shall I write it now? I shall, for “Once there was a boy, his name was Tommy . . .” It’s me and my story. I shall revive me before I go – yes the me in me, and I shall share it. Where am I and how did I get here? Yes! Who, what, where, why, how? When did I become me? Yes, I will start there, in the beginning and it will be me, and… “and a river runs through.”

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