The blood moon crouched on the horizon as I came home from work on Tuesday.  I longed for even my scratched lens to capture the glowing orb.  By the time I got to the Park, it had risen, bright, full, and radiant.

I cannot sleep these days.  A few hours of rest ends with tense moments of wakefulness before I finally drag myself from bed.  I huddle under the blankets as long as possible, wishing for the silent shroud of sleep. Eventually I cannot avoid the futility of my efforts.   But I don’t use the extra time for anything productive.  My body still yearns for rest, steered wrong by a scrambling brain.

The next year could make or break my mortal salvation.  Mindful of my promise to live to be 103, I consider that I have a third of my life remaining.  I could do so much with three decades:  Finish my book; atone for my misspent youth; send countless ripples of joy across the surface of our moonlit planet.  I do not suggest that I have any special power other than hard-won awareness.  My muscles still shudder; my heart still wobbles; my stubborn nature persists.  But I have stepped out of the shadows into the dazzling light on the bright side of the moon.  That has to count for something.

It’s the fourteenth day of the seventy-first month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

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