the lost man chronicles
Ah, my thoughts on my impending death have matured so nicely.
For I no longer delusionally tender thoughts of the grandeur of assassination, as I once vainly did in my early twenties. No, now I see myself subject to an excruciatingly drawn-out heart attack.
It's all quite amusing really.
Because, although I'm not losing my hair and there has been but one strand of grey during these my vexating days of my middle years, at the ripe age of 36, I still feel a bit waylaid by this dawning mortality.
It's so high-maintenance, to try and stay young—to exercise, to eat well, to dispel all those bad and tempting thoughts. All this temperance sought, just so that I might not rot as fast, and alas, degenerate just a tad bit slower than how all other matter goes—or as this matter might otherwise go, rot in hell, because I did not steer clear of all those derailing indiscretions.
And yet, this steady diet of moderation, often seems to come up against so many other things as well—duty and obligation, responsibility, family, friends, making amends, and the hammering pangs of a starving intellect.
Not to mention the spontaneous will which has long proven to fill my life with wonderful and beautiful moments of extraordinary being, surreal experience, and ethereal ecstasy. These three wily moments alone are enough to drive any honed middle-of the-road disciplinarian off the road and onto the path of resplendently perverse happiness.
Thus, I confess—periodically I find myself imbalanced; see-sawing between a physiologically stabilizing, yet emotionally draining regimen, and the Dionysian impulse, unbridled passion and unrelenting momentum of creativity which have always invigorated me, yet inevitably challenged the sound course of my circumspect charter.
So, if I falter and fate would have my heart suddenly sputter, I can only hope that it was fluttering while I was in the beguiling arms of creativity.
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