“It Frightens Me the Awful Truth of How Sweet Life Can Be”
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Title quote from Bob Dylan in the song, “Up to Me”. I think I live inside my head more than others do. Who can know for sure? But I am ready to give up illusions of security to gain an image or a “feel” after an afternoon saunter in cool, gray September. I imagine a world and make it happen, with or without the help of a steady income not earned by my labor. I dream a bohemian lifestyle with my lover, or pretend homelessness for a month, sleeping on a rock bed at the lakeshore, collecting cans and turning them into bananas. All in my head. When I sense that sweet dose of youth corrupting, I become the fool in love with love. At this late stage of life is it absurd to nurture my youthful desires? Or is it crazier to stubbornly get old, living just to exist another day? Futile questions. Life is revolutions around the sun and circles of seasons. If I am in the autumn of my existence, and it takes a mere 8 minutes to die, then I am as young or old as I expect. It is up to me to color a life. No one looks at a blazing scarlet maple tree in October and says “too old”. A life worth living will not deny the sun, turning the head and putting a hand out to say, “that’s not for me”. The grandfather squirrel hasn’t abandoned his dreams because it’s bad form to chase nuts after fifty.
“It Frightens Me the Awful Truth of How Sweet Life Can Be”
“It Frightens Me the Awful Truth of How Sweet…
“It Frightens Me the Awful Truth of How Sweet Life Can Be”
Title quote from Bob Dylan in the song, “Up to Me”. I think I live inside my head more than others do. Who can know for sure? But I am ready to give up illusions of security to gain an image or a “feel” after an afternoon saunter in cool, gray September. I imagine a world and make it happen, with or without the help of a steady income not earned by my labor. I dream a bohemian lifestyle with my lover, or pretend homelessness for a month, sleeping on a rock bed at the lakeshore, collecting cans and turning them into bananas. All in my head. When I sense that sweet dose of youth corrupting, I become the fool in love with love. At this late stage of life is it absurd to nurture my youthful desires? Or is it crazier to stubbornly get old, living just to exist another day? Futile questions. Life is revolutions around the sun and circles of seasons. If I am in the autumn of my existence, and it takes a mere 8 minutes to die, then I am as young or old as I expect. It is up to me to color a life. No one looks at a blazing scarlet maple tree in October and says “too old”. A life worth living will not deny the sun, turning the head and putting a hand out to say, “that’s not for me”. The grandfather squirrel hasn’t abandoned his dreams because it’s bad form to chase nuts after fifty.