Live fast and die young. They say age ain’t nothing but a number, but in this instance, the “they” that comprises the clichéd masses have it right. I’ve seen ageism permeate the thought patterns of my brethren and I’m here to put an end to it if it’s not already too late. I’ve heard brilliant youth told that they’re too young to know their shit and sage elders marginalized to irrelevancy. I’ve known cats in their sixties with their finger on the pulse and eighteen year olds that put the “L” in lame. Cool comes with no shelf life and it knows no age. Either you’ve got it or you’re ass out. “Young” and “fresh”, much like “old” and “wise”, are not synonyms. To be youthful is much more a state of mind than a literal tallying of days, weeks, months and years. It is an expression of gratitude for the gift of life and health—a vibrant, idealistic response to the hope that emerges from beyond the horizon with the rising sun of each new morning. To be young, quite simply, is to stay in the game. As I’ve been blessed enough to reach the age that my dear father was when he had me, more and more I’ve come to understand how precious our days are and how quickly the hourglass grains of sand accumulate… How growing old with grace is but a quaint rationalization for the sad excuse of giving up and giving in. Though the mileage has accumulated on my ’78 Caddy sedan with the Lamborghini guts, if you want to race, I’ll punch the gas and leave you in the dust… Just as I did 10 years ago, just as I will 10 years from now, God willing. Cuz you see, life moves fast, so you’ve gotta live fast to keep up. And I pray we will all die young, even if we live to see a hundred.
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