A friend posted this on Facebook and it was one of those things that hit me square between the eyes: maybe punk rock thoughts on death and aging are overdue, but either way, I was glad to see it. Such a simple statement made so much sense of my past few years.
Here’s a spoken word version of it.
It was in the winter of my fiftieth year
When it hit me
I was really alone
And there wasn’t a hell a lot of time left
Every laugh and touch that I could get
Became more important
Strangely, I became more bookish
And my home and study meant more to me
As I considered the circumstances of my death
I wanted to find a balance between joy and dignity
On my way out
Above all, I didn’t want to take any more shit
Not from anybody