No one can go there and look at much of my past. Hell, I’ve forgotten so much of it. What I can remember, I remember, most often, the way I want to remember it.
I think, when I get stuck, in a back-in-the-day day, it’s because I’m fearful that my future will be boring. I’m apprehensive that I’ve done the best I’m going to be able to pull off.
It’s a comfortable place, and it’s as funny as I want it to be. I laugh at my own stories. Adventures, mine, his, hers, theirs’s, all melt together. Does this make a raconteur? Do we like raconteurs?
Your stories are my stories and those stories are … stories. Hopefully, then, I’ll have a point, or, maybe, I’ll just be talking so I can hear myself, kind of a process of self congratulation for maintaining a heart beat.
The past is both immutable and fluid. Perception is incredibly flexible. I hope my joy is flexible as well. When I cannot do, and can only remember, I hope my creativity does not suffer much, until, as least, very close to the end.
I actually hope my past keeps getting better. I’d love to clear the ramp with a knowing smile on my face.