Unless you die young (by intent or by accident) you will never, never know the joys and heartaches old men have gone through. While you're young, strong, curious and foolishly brave, life seems like an eternal gift. You pay no attention to the beginning and simply wait for the days to come, roll by and fade away. At least, I must confess, that was the case with me.
So much water has flowed under the countless bridges I've crossed I only noticed lately the rivers are getting narrower, the birds that used to flock above are now just lonely pairs and the young friends I had are gone, replaced by a few old men and women, some hairless, some missing sparkles in their eyes.
But I still remember them (maybe not all) even some who have gone ahead to unknown places in the universe... and now and then I have to struggle just to remember their names or connect the right name to the smiling young faces. There are moments when I still know the beauty of the old songs of my youth, humming them until I fall asleep and I still jump with joy when I meet the works of masters such as Cezanne, Renoir, Amorsolo, Van Gogh, Hidalgo and many more.
And I thrill to the power of old music and attempt to play their simple melodies in my keyboard - my personal way of praising the long-dead geniuses we all adore. I tried playing "Ode to Joy" on my keyboard and sharp pains almost paralyzed my fingers! The time to rest is near. Youth's shadow is nothing but that - a misty memory. There is no use for old men. They must give way to time and just dream of the fickle muses.
Old men cannot be bright fireworks in the middle of the night, not even tiny sparks from a lighter's flint.
And that, I feel, is what life away from home can be.
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