The Art of Reaching

I reach less and less now. Go out less, make fewer plans, see fewer people. I'm shrinking each day.
Old age? Who knows? Conversations blur into a maze of sounds. I've seen all the flowers, stood atop the highest buildings, swallowed the most delicious food. Getting on a plane seems exhausting.
I may have peaked as a writer. I sense I've trampled through all my ideas and now I'm repeating myself. Inspiration lies at the bottom of my hamper. I have lost the art of reaching, risking, seeking.
I am folding in on myself, indifferent to that which used to surprise and delight.
I have too much accumulated stuff. I crave empty space and its lack of expectation. I just want to sit in my recliner and stare at the ceiling fan.
My life is diminishing and I don't care. Don't answer the phone, delete emails, never text or respond to the doorbell. I switched back to a straight razor because my Remington was making too much noise.
I foresee a point when I will only brush half my teeth and bath certain body parts.
Maybe I will stick my head out the door and some random person will tell me a joke that will make me smile. As long as they don't expect one back. We shouldn't have to reach for laughter.