A path to follow

Shuffling about in the half light, the floor littered with clothing and shoes, its time to get up. The alarm had shaken off a dream which I struggled to remember, it brought me into the reality of another day, a day without much structure, a day drawn out, counting the minutes and the hours.
Hardly Breakfast at Tiffany's the kettle is filled and the open fridge door reveals a motley assortment of leftovers to choose from. The early morning light filters through the kitchen window revealing an outline of  trees and shrubs. Quick as a flash a fox crosses the lawn to disappear into the shadows on his way to his earth for a bout of shut eye.
The sky is criss crossed with wispy stratospheric clouds heralding good weather but obscured at the moment by the steam rising from the kettle, coating the window with water droplets it encloses the kitchen, a place to recover the mojo. These days we have to spend or loose are all we can count on to allow us the time to take measure of who we are and what worth we have whilst here on earth. Each animal has an instinctive wish to live and conjure out of its environment a sense of living.
We of course intellectualise our sense of worth, we create worlds in which we are held in special favour and find reward even after death. We bring hope to the mundane, we worship the power of immortality, we create false gods in an effort to shine a light on our individuality, making special the ordinary.
Three score years and ten are the allotted space to make our mark and then, if we fail we are relegated into obscurity. 
Of course the measure of success or failure is arbitrary, to say the least and there are as many yardsticks as there are people since everyone has a path to follow and each journey  is uniquely theirs.