I felt momenteraly defeated. Maybe it was age, maybe just having done everything too many times, I began to ponder the possibility that vampires, or any other being blessed with eternal life would surely use up any experience available and would be faced with the distinct possibility of facing eternity doing the same things over and over again ad naseum. Either that or discover if there are as many experiences as grains of sand, or planets in the universe.
Carrying my sack of woe around was becoming a burden. The poet was supposed to inspire me but all she did, much of the time was make me concious, uncomfortably so, of the butterfly dance of life and how soon the wings are crushed and dry upon the ground.
It was all well and good to pronounce that the dying of the light not come gently, or without protest but I had too many things to remember, and too many things to forget. At times I stood, frozen in the lights of illumination as fragments of my past come alive.
When I was younger I would attribute it to a drug flash but now it was more unsettling, leaving me limp and drained. I was afraid of the past, I justified. As a solution I didn't turn around. I kept moving, as if, like a shark, I knew that to idle was to die.