Song of An Old Man

I don't sing of myself-- not anymore, not since I lost my looks, 2 inches in height, plus half my strength--and God knows how many millions of brain cells! There's no joyous song in aging, there's nothing to look forward to, unless you like the idea of dying, and who would? Even the desperate see death only as surcease to pain, not an end in itself, not a destination.... No, there's no upside to growing old, not like there is to growing up into a world malleable, a bit magical and scary too, but scary in the good way: like getting on a roller coaster even though you have a fear of heights.... No, there's just not a damn thing to look forward to, or so you think--and so you tend to look back, to try to live again as a youth in memory and in dreams-- Ah, dreams! How you cherish your dreams now day-life, so called 'real life', becomes so slow, so dull, so monotonous, that every day, EVERY DAMN DAY seems like a Sunday--only you don't get dressed up and go to church.... BUT in you dreams you are sometimes young again, sometimes wise and even brave on occasion--all is diamond in your dreams, the dreams of an old man, the songs of an old man....