Ah, the third stage of life, what I like to call ACT III. When one reaches a certain age; the fledglings have flown, divorce perhaps, a new career, a brush with illness. All these things are cause for a life-review, a taking stock and deciding what’s worth holding on to and what is best discarded. To me, the lighter the load the better. I find there are few burdens compelling enough to bear a moment longer. I hear myself saying “I don’t care” to no one in particular, quite often. Life is just too damn short.
Indeed, the last two decades have passed in a blink and I intend to not waste a breath of the next two. The sudden realization that I’ve already lived longer than I have left to live was an ass-kicking motivation to say fuck the comfort zone, fuck regret, fuck New England Winters. I want my life to be an adventurous rhapsody! (To commence immediately following my afternoon nap.)
One approaches ACT III with anticipation and the kind of feeling I haven’t had since the weeks leading up to my eighteenth birthday: Freedom is in sight and you count the days until your life is your own – the possibilities seem endless. Also fear and desperation, because wisdom won the hard way tells you that things don’t always go as planned, BUT, this is your last shot to squeeze out of life what you want, to become actualized, and as most writers desire, to leave some kind of legacy. One never knows if there will be an ACT IV, or how many marbles will remain.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves. ~ Shakespeare
I dislike cliche’s, however, it actually is now or never. I’ve got nothing to lose. I feel vulnerable, inadequate, a bit too late to the party and truly, I don’t care. I’m going for it all.
ACT III begins, the curtain goes up, and I am the actor and the audience. In a tremolo no one wants to hear, I belt out that old Sarah Vaughn number I’m gonna live, live, live ’til I diiiiie!
OnWriting+Art+Beaty+Men+MidLife 