Waiting for the wolves

Every now and then, I realise that my opinion counts for nothing, and that tends to block me from writing anything at all. It fades of course and i return to the delusional state in which I imagine that someone somewhere might give a shit. We are all the centres of the universe and everything spins around us. We all imagine that we are all important and indestructable but the reality of it all is that we are all islands. John Donne got it wrong. LIke all islands though we do need interaction with others, we need to trade and to share ideas, but when the sun goes down we are alone.
We journey through whatever paths we choose and we may leave traces of where we have been, we may even influence others and in turn be influenced by them, but our path is unique and we tread it the way we choose.
Many believe in some sort of afterlife; whether it be reincarnation or a paradise populated by virgins ( seems like an oxymoron to me!), and this seems to give some sort of hope to the extent that their whole lives are devoted to preparation for the next one. That seems like spending all of one's income on life insurance, or placing a huge bet on the world ending tomorrow. I believe that we just have the one life and that one day the end of the path will be reached; beyond that there is nothingness and we take that last step alone. If it is possible we should endeavour to link our paths to other's while we can, and to make the most of whatever encounters there may be.
The spectre of old age is a frequent visitor, and elderly, frail parents are a constant reminder of one's own futility. The prospect of vegetation in front of a TV, or worse, in the cabbage and urine saturated atmosphere of an old folks home terrify me as i am sure they do others, and i hope that by the time i get there, that there will be alternatives. Being left festering in a home is no better than being left on the outskirts of the village and waiting for the wolves.