I’m 48 years old now. Does it even matter? I don’t care anymore how many wrinkles are around my eyes. How thin the skin is getting on my eyelids. How thin the hair is coming out. I don’t care that my eyelashes are fading away to oblivion.
What I care about is people.
I care about the fact that I like to make people laugh. That I can help people forgive themselves when they are shitheads to themselves or each other. Not by ignoring what they’ve done but by learning from it. I care about the fact that I know how to be patient and calm most of the time and when I’m not there’s usually a pretty fucking damn good reason for it. I am proud of the fact that I can teach people how to communicate. To get out of their fucking shells and live in this world and stop hiding behind gadgets and gizmos because I know, even though there is a lot of joy to be had from all that shit, that ultimately what we all really need for happiness is connection. Face to face, skin to skin, eyes to eyes connection. Those are the memories you’ll remember when you’re lying on your deathbed. Not the time you sat in the car and stared at your phone for an hour to kill the monotony.
I sound like a preacher most of the time. I think it’s because of all the catholic school. Sometimes I hate that. Sometimes I embrace it. Sometimes I wonder why the hell I can’t write about anything else. And then eventually I accept the fact that this is who I am right now and I jolly well should just enjoy it. I better be who I am until I am sick of it and only then will I be ready to move on and be somebody else.