On being truly alive.

Occasionally, I lose a friend. Most likely in a gradual manner. We drift apart. Maybe because I tend to put friends to a test, of sorts. By psychoanalyzing 'em. Maybe right here in my blog. Oh, I hide their identity. No names. But they see themselves. In what I write. I could easily write a novel. In which I create characters based on my family members. Or friends. And acquaintances. The thing is I find real life far more interesting than fiction. More preposterous. More unbelievable. More gratifying. Maybe that's why I'm in love with life. It's fascinating. I feel like I'm living in a novel. But it ain't fiction. It's real. Makes me wonder if there's a clear-cut separation betwen fact and fiction. Maybe not. I'm a romantic idealist. Among other things. But mostly, I allow myself to be. Exactly what I am. I really live as a romantic idealist. I've cultivated a real true love. A wonderful Italian. In Sardinia. And we've taken to living with each other. Physically together. Much of the year. We're in daily contact. We thrive. On each other. It's a wonderful love story. We're living it. At this very moment. Every day. Every night. I couldn't make it up. I call myself a dreamer. And a lover. And a spiritual free-thinker. And a political liberal. Yes, I'm all of these. I'm living. As me. So is my true love. I can't ask for more than that. Being truly alive. By letting things happen. Naturally. Thing is. Even if I lose a friend, I've gained a love. --Jim Broede