On being real and human.

Call me a failure.  An incompetent. A loser. Won’t bother me.  Because I either know better. Or accept what I am. I’m pretty good.  At lots of things. But not so good at others. And above all else, I don’t mind failing. Making mistakes.  That’s my nature. Being myself. Maybe that’s why I’ve never had bouts of depression. I feel good. About myself.  Doesn’t matter if some people say bad stuff about me. I can take criticism. Even if it ain’t legitimate. After all, being misjudged is a part of life. I accept life. As it is. Maybe because I’m in love.  Not only with my Italian true love. But with life in general. I’d much rather be alive than dead.  At the end of each day. Before going to bed.  I sit down and write. An evaluation of each day. And no matter what, I always find something to savor. Even if it was a somewhat bad day.  Often reminding myself of what I’ve become. A romantic idealist, a spiritual free-thinker, a political liberal, a lover, a dreamer. A writer  and thinker, too.  That’s a nice blend. Sure, I could be more. A complete success. Totally competent. Always a winner.  But that would make me less real, less human. –Jim Broede