Two-Finger Style

It’s another foggy and damp morning out here across the Pecan Grove, and just like yesterday there’s not much sound coming off the highway. Even the birds haven’t risen to sing a song. But just like a good little soldier I was wide awake at four in the morning pretending to sleep till seven. But silence has its own certain sound. Along with the biting chill tearing through my long sleeved t-shirt. For a moment a lone bird did cry in the distance repeating its one lonely song. While I create a certain rhythm of my own, pounding on the keys in my usual two finger style.

But life appears the same, as I rub my face and roll my head to loosen up the stiffness. But no one greets me at the dawn of the day, for I am nothing more than a part of the scenery around here. But that is okay, I don’t mind for I have become nothing beyond these walls. Living the dream of a quiet existence I have wanted for so long. Still the need for importance rouses it’s head just to make me feel important. But those times of need are so seldom and far between.

So I practice my lines like the words written in a script, much like what you are reading now. Just to keep the ability to think sharp. But so few understand the words anymore of an of a nearly forgotten man. Until he’s needed for something, then rises from his grave. So weep not for the silent ones of a long lost generation. As my peers pretend to be relevant riding around on golf carts, getting tattoos, and displaying shower balls. My guess I’m from the generation that matured before it’s time. Weighed down by the responsibility we took on but never complained about. Blamed for all the woes of the world, while the rest of you still haven’t changed. Just feeling our years and accepting them all the same.