narcissism

I wrote this poem the other day. I was flooded with memory, hanging my shades, decluttering my office area (half of my very large bedroom). In the late evening I sat down and wrote it in one pass. I edited it the next morning, and then again later. I am not one to read my own writing once it's finished, or listen to my own music. I see my own paintings because I have them hanging throughout the apartment, and I actually enjoy looking at them. On the occasions when I listen to my music (working on my website, or at a concert or playing it for some other musician) I just get too focused on technical matters. But this poem somehow occupies me. It is not a sad poem. I think of it as a song of memory, a praise for memory, an understanding that one gets after having been around a while. Not a poem a younger person would write. But not sad. Not happy; just content, for a moment.