There was a time I would have written of love, passion, for that was all I knew, all I lived for. I knew it so well. It moved all my decisions, made all my choices for me. Everything I did I did for a man to make myself more exciting, more beautiful, to tell him a story that would entertain him or make him jealous. All my daydreams were of love, all my nights engulfed by it.

In surges my art would take precedence. For moments my art would win then fritter out to passion again.

There was a time I would not have time to have written unless to have written a love letter.

Now I play solitaire, read easy novels, watch old movies, go to current ones, take care of aging parents, eat soft foods. I still exercise some, walk, I write condolence notes to friends about their losses, but speak not of my losses. My loss of love, frivolous love.

I watched a young woman throw a large vase of dogwood in a restaurant today. She nearly hit a young man. She wasn’t aiming — she was hurling passion around. I have been her — hurling passion, throwing love, pounding insanity.

I am stuck before my next stage, stalled between stations and it’s pleasant at this stopped place — warm, cozy, inert. I’m not sure if I should just stay put or start walking. Trust the train to move me, hurtle me into life again or solo it.

I would have written of love once and so much I could have written. For I was loved by many men, great men, handsome, poor, wealthy clever and not so. Now my middle has added inches galore and I think of peace not passion. Full scale depression.

My teenage son tells me I need to go climb another mountain for I have climbed to 19,970’ on Africa’s Kilimanjaro. But the mountain is within this time.

By Tina