I want to live a life so full it feels more like a metaphor.
I want to live a life so vivacious the long-dead stars shining down from above silently whisper “Kudos” at it from the heavens, one that hooks a reader the way the story hooks the writer at some point in the middle of the writing, refusing to let them put down their pen until they can pick the story up in the print.
I want to feel the icy North Atlantic waves of life crash down, in full fervor, upon the deck of my sinew and have a soul strong enough that it stands at the helm amid the torrent with wide open arms, cheerfully blushing at the brutality of it all, and shouting “What a rush!”
I want to run through the meadows in my sixties like the children do. Like the teens remember how to. Like the college kids remember they need to. Like the adults so often forget to.
I want to be the driver who drives into a city of 371,000 and falls in love the challenge of the traffic, because driving in a city of 56,143 can get a little boring.
The societies of this world would select against the evolution of such thinking. They would rather you leave the forest of the status quo alone. “Only you can prevent forest fires,” they tell you.
But what kind of life is one lived but ablaze?