Maybe that’s the purpose of life. To put time to a useful
purpose. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.
And then acting. As if one is truly living. The fabulous story of one’s life.
One can pick and choose. Chapter and verse. In well-ordered sequence. Or in disarray. Doesn’t matter. Some days, my life unfolds poetically. In a
love sonnet. Other days, it’s a short story. With plenty of pathos. Or a play. Full of melodrama. To suit my mood.
To laugh or cry. I am feeling the gamut of human emotions. Spiritual, too. Isn’t that the purpose of
life? --Jim Broede
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