Chouchou Perdue

I will know my personal truth only through the pages of thought before me, and that, written in my crab-like scrawl, by my wavering hand. Random faces appear, as they must when we close our eyes. Fleetingly, they break with a snort from our subconscious into thoughts and images. Often, they are as unwelcome as they are unbidden. And as the potatoes that I am having for my dinner cook and the sun sets on yet another sandstone escarpment, I know my desires have waned in direct proportion to the pain in my withering legs and the grey in my beard. But I remember.