Despair caught up with me rather strongly yesterday, right out of the blue.  While at the end of what had been a very reasonable surf set, especially for August, I suddenly realized that I was closing in on the age at which many people start gearing down for retirement, that I was a childless widower with no siblings, and would probably see my health reach a point where my peripatetic life would not be sustainable.  If I were to become seriously, even mortally ill, I would have no one to count on during those final months.

I just went back to the house that isn't mine, empty yet again, accidentally stepped on the cat's tail, thus alienating him for the rest of the evening, and watched television.  It was one of those times when I wished the island had a bar so that I could walk there and find even transient, inebriate company.  Self-pity is always unattractive, but especially so with those who, like myself, have lived for awhile and have had a life of success and interest.

Sometimes it's just best to go to sleep.

Not that today was much better, but this sensation does encourage me to make plans for the future and not slip so easily into despair's clutches.  I may head for Florida sooner than I had planned, spending the better portion of the month in the Keys before heading towards Daytona for the duration of the winter; or until a house-sitting opportunity presents itself in southern California.