Thursday, December 13, 2012
I wish I could see, more often, the flashy stylishness of my life – the something special and distinctive that dwells in each newfound moment. I must confess to sometimes thinking of the passing seconds of my life as lackluster and colorless, but are they ever truly that way? Isn’t this life I have somehow been allowed to live filled with unalloyed flamboyance? Isn’t every new second, if I see it clearly, overflowing with youthful and street-smart chic? The moments of my life are let loose, in wildness and liberty, from the heart of the measureless universe, and they arrive like kindhearted wake-up calls, like songs that should stir me into an honest appreciation of this smart and modish thing called life. I enjoy dressing up, and yes, why shouldn’t a person, even a seventy-one-year-old well-creased and weathered one, have a little style in his bearing and behavior? Why shouldn’t he sometimes, even on Saturday, wear spry bow ties and impeccably pressed shirts, as much as to say, “This guy has some technique”? Why can’t I show a sort of colorful confidence and manner, as if to say to one and all, “This is how much I love this stylish thing called life!”?
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