Alive

I thought I might write down a few things.
Not so much that anyone might like to read what I write but to get it out of my head where it is cluttering up my hard drive.
Well, that is what it seems like ever since an ayahuasca experience left me with the notion of exactly how much stuff was cluttering up an otherwise a perfectly good collection of neurones, the slowest of which have been weeded out by timely cullings of red wine.
Be that as it may it gives me something to do.
At a certain age it begins to cross ones mind that all the irritating things one has been keeping to one’s self for fear of recrimination, fear of being seen as a troublemaker, non PC, bounced out of one’s profession, held to account for some conduct unbefitting, actionable, or libellous, simply become so overwhelming as to throttle the integrity of one’s own self expression.

Then the only question left is:-
To go or Not Go Gentle into that Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. (D. Thomas)

My Father is dead.
My Son is dead

But I AM alive!