I'm new here, and kind of insecure about it, but I've been advised to just jump on in, so here goes.
What is a life? If it's "air goes in and out and blood goes 'round and 'round," then I'm doing all right. If it's "eat, sleep, eat again, then take a little nap," I'm really living it up! But if it's more than that, if it's friends and work and hobbies and (dare I say it?) love, then it must be someone else's life, because it surely doesn't belong to me. This morning I had a chat with my best (and, I sometimes suspect, only) friend about a minor business matter. She has no idea we talked, however, because the whole conversation took place in my imagination. I do that a lot. I spent a little time playing the mandolin, too, but again, only in my head. I haven't touched the real thing in years—can't even bring myself to open the case. How bad is it when a guy can't even approach an inanimate object anymore? Employment (by myself or by others) has been out of the question for a few years, and I'm afraid romance caught the midnight train a long, long time ago.
I did manage to write out most of a new poem yesterday, so I guess that's something. If it turns out well, I may post it on Facebook, so it can be ignored along with all the rest. Also, I just started reading a new book, which seems pretty good so far. That's something, too, but is it enough? Does it constitute a life? Whatever this mode of being is, I'm mired in it up to my eyeballs, which makes viewing it objectively a challenge. So, am I alive or merely breathing? You tell me.