Decades worth of journals
(once my daily confidante)
lie under the bed
untouched,
gathering dust.

The record of my past
does not entice ,
has not for what seems
like forever.

As for the here and now,
the pages of my last birthday gift
are empty, unless you count
maudlin entries typed and printed
out of pure laziness.

My past can never be retrieved,
never relived except as
sometimes vivid memories.
My present is of little interest these days,
future hopes only a mirage
(for what seems like forever).

I have no wish to relive today,
spilling my guts on blank pages
for posterity,
even while despairing for
a better tomorrow.

Eileen Auger
10/01/2014