It would be great to grow old, so old that my body starts failing me. Hell, even the latter stages when life has hit me past the point of my knees buckling, past the point of trying to balance on my elbows, all the way to the fetus position on the kitchen floor with no visitors until a thoughtful neighbor comes calling to warn that my car is parked on the side of the street that is to be street-cleaned and if I don't move it then it will be ticketed or towed. And I won't answer the door because I'll be dying, but it will be assumed that I'm not home. And that'll be fine. And when word gets around that I died so alone, people will sigh great, big, melancholic sighs about how depressing it must have been, though I won't have cared. Why would I? I'll be old. And I'll have lived such a long, unfulfilled life because the things I believe in don't match common perceptions of success.
So what the fuck am I thinking? I could abandon all my friends and live a great big life, and I could be healthy and rear some children that I'd love and maybe even marry some girl who I might get along with. But the feeling won't go away. Once it's there, it's there to stay. It's not the kind of thing you grow out of, you know? It can only be covered with layers of distractions, like sports or music or politics, and where's the truth in that? How can the Blackhawks winning the championship be legitimately fulfilling? And why get riled up when watching a game that you have no vested interest in?
But I don't really care. There's love and beauty and a bunch of other stuff, but that gets spoiled by the people in charge. I'd probably be an asshole, too, if I was some kind of authority on something.
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