My fertile imagination.

I think about dying. Some day. But I don’t dwell on it. Because I prefer to focus on living. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Next year. But I know, relatively speaking, that I’m running out of time. I’m feeling good. Healthy, really. But knowing at my age, that things are more likely to go wrong. At the snap of a finger. But I’m not worried. I accept the notion of death. That it’s inevitable. And that I am blessed. For having reached age 78. With the optimistic prospect of surviving into my 80s. In good shape. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.  It would have been much more difficult for me to accept death when I was younger. I wanted to reach old age. To see what it’s like. And to have time to get my act together. Haven’t decided yet how I want to die. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It could be a sudden death. Or a long, lingering and painful one.  Wonder if I have a choice. My father did. He committed suicide. Sixty-some years ago. At age 38. That fate would have been unacceptable for me. I’ve always wanted to live. For another day. I never wished to die. If I had my druthers, I’d live forever.  As a spirit. In a non-physical dimension. I’ve become a romantic idealist. A dreamer, too.  I’m able to imagine such an existence.  Maybe that’s what I like most about life. My fertile imagination. –Jim Broede