Death Is a Dirty Trick

After forty every day is an adventure. Waking up with pain in places you didn’t even know were places, coming to terms with diminishing energy and time for all the plans you once had. But something else starts to happen you never wanted to think about: death.

People you know start to die. Or start the long process of dying. Including yourself.

It’s not an ever-present reality, more of a shadow you start to notice all around you. Things get slightly darker. You try to compensate by being even more appreciative of the good things you have and the days without pain and all that you have survived and continue to survive. But it’s there.

Then it happens.

That first friend dies.

Not accidentally. Not tragically. They die from complications of being on this Earth longer than than it takes for their death to be a shock.

And it starts. An invisible hourglass is turned over somewhere on a table in the Universe.

You immediately want to go buy every food and every piece of exercise equipment that will ward off this shadowy presence, but in the end, you are who you are, and the cards you have been dealt will have more to do with your eventual demise than your lifestyle.

But I wasn’t finished with that book I intended to write. I never got to Paris. I always wanted to learn to play the piano.

You are who you are.


Go away, I’m not done watching American Pickers.



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