To each his/her own world.

I adjust to life. On the go. Day to day. Primarily by romanticizing life. Interpreting it all. In a storybook fashion. It’s like living in a novel. One paragraph, one page, one chapter at a time. Fascinating stuff. I live. Just to see what happens next. Don’t want my story to end. So many twists and turns. Often. I become oblivious. Of how I’m affecting others. Because I’ve created my own world. A cocoon. In which I shut out virtually every one.  Yesterday, I was walking the boardwalk. The one that connects my two decks. On the west side of my lake shore home. Listening to a CD. Flute music of the Paris Conservatory.  Played too loudly to suit my next door neighbor. Alice. She came over. Asked if I’d turn it down a little bit.  I went from sound level 10. To 5.  Hope that did it.  I apologized. Alice didn’t come back. I returned to my idyllic, isolated world.  Walking. Walking. Back and forth. For six miles. In my lush garden. At the Paris Conservatory. A live concert. Just for me. Julia Bogorad-Kogan, flute. Margo Garrett, piano. Apparently, Alice doesn’t appreciate French music. Alice missed an opportunity to enter my world. She much prefers. Her boring, unromantic reality. Which is all right. To each his/her own world. –Jim Broede