Self-Portrait - A rough sketch

Today I feel like eking myself out in words. Not that I need elaboration. On the contrary, my silence would be more fitting. Ironic, that I intend to use words to describe my silence, which is myself. But that is what we are: ironic.

At times images of solitude pervade my mind: a swan gliding on a rippling lake, an empty field under the cotton sky, a leaf floating gently down to earth. I don't know what these photographic snapshots serve. I am not always so placid. Perhaps I metaphorically define myself in landscapes. In any case, the blatant romanticism of it all sometimes bothers me. Sometimes my own words make me sick. But often for me, eloquence exists in emotions more so than the intellect. Sensitivity is my weakness, yet this vulnerability leads me to the beautiful.

And suddenly the words evade me....I think I am being coherent only to myself. Maybe honest self-definition is more impossible at my age...