Doom, aka Moros, aka Olethros
Morning breaks with a clear blue winter sky, called a Blue Norther here. I suspect it is because the north winds blow the pale grey skies of humidity back to the Gulf of Mexico. It is good that it does, because nothing is as cold as a damp morning. I sit here clad in me unmentionables, safely ensconced in my 49 dollar Office Depot “executive chair”, and ponder tidbits to offer you in the hopes of entertaining you for a brief moment.
Baubles. Little bright beads of small value. That is my stock in trade.
I try to find a hundred ways to tell you that the phlox, bluebonnets and vinca’s are beginning to push up from the ground, waiting for early spring warmth to bloom. Every morning, I see them out my studio window when it is too chilly to sit on the porch and watch the wage slave trundle off to their duties.
Ah. The wage slaves. They are invading my rural bliss with a development here, and a development there, and my once quiet country lane now has become a too narrow conduit to the city and the roar of industry invades my sleepy retirement. Cement mixers, lumber trucks, workers in huge tired pickup trucks rumble by in deep throated grumbles.
But then I think. Does it really matter?
Probably not. No point in working myself up over small potatoes. I’ll plant a couple of dense trees to block the view of the two homes being built beyond my back fence. I’ll still wait ’til the wildflowers are spent before mowing the acre out front. I don’t care if my house is not a showcase. My plan is to live out my days here until they drag me off to the indignity of a nursing home.
But Moros, aka Olethros, the god of doom, is in the drivers seat, and he is closed mouth. Only he has seen the tapestry of my life. Only he can dispatch Thanatos, the god of peaceful death, or Kers, the goddess of violent death, to collect my soul. My hope is for Thanatos, and it is he that ever stands silently on my left.
And the sun rises another 15° in the sky, the coffee has cooled, the temperature outside has risen another 10°, and a new day beckons me.
Good morning!
~r
Rusty's Armory 