the lost man chronicles
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to glean upon the gleam

Glow, glimmer, shine, gleam—the twinkle of what seemed and I giddily thought to be a new grey hair teased me with sparkling allure as I glared at it after coming straight out of the shower.

Alas, the foggy glass obstructed the full satisfaction of my curious assumption, and it wasn’t until I slid two fingers across the foggy p(l)ane it that I caught a good and proper glimpse.

In the incandescent light I thought I might be mistaken, but sure enough, after a few subtle turns of my chin, I confirmed it was nothin’ but a mutant—a mere golden brown strand, rather than the glorious grey one I was earnestly hoping for. I was both disappointed and invigorated at the same time, for, as I had realized a long time ago, the sublime difference between ripe old age and vigorous youth is determined by one’s own disposition and the discipline you have over you mortal coil.

Accept the inevitable, and the ensuing, allaying resignation will endow you with an incredible vim for life. Your stride and strife will become light as it lithely crosses time and you learn to better appreciate the unfolding and sublime opportunity offered each new day.

For there is a better way of gleaning upon the plight toward death—it is the acceptance of each new breath with great pride and greater humility; with lackadaisical languor and an enlivened agility that makes the most of every moment granted to us anew.

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