Turning seventy—hell, that’s no milestone; it’s a crack in the windshield at 100 miles per hour. You think sixty or eighty are something? No, seventy’s the threshold, a doorway into the twilight where the rules change and you either grit your teeth or roll over. This isn’t just a marker on the calendar; it’s a cosmic dare to live on my terms or die trying. It’s about stripping down to the essentials, tossing the junk, and clinging to whatever absurd, fleeting joy is left. Thank God, I can still find it.
Then, seventy-five a few months ago, which hit me like a freight train, and suddenly, health and time became the rarest of luxuries. Life has a sell-by date, but they don’t tell you when. The cosmic roulette wheel spins, and I’m left clutching my chest, wondering if the next tick’s my last.
By now, the cast of characters inevitably thins. Some vanish without warning, slipping away like smoke, leaving me with a sense of unfinished conversations, unanswered questions, and memories that haunt in the quiet. They’re gone, and I’m left wondering what final thoughts they might have had, the last words they wanted to say but couldn’t.
Others linger—but seem locked in a slow, grinding march through life’s final acts. Their spark fades, replaced by years that weigh like lead, as if they’re stuck in an endless loop of suffering. I watch them drift through days, lost in memories or regrets, their bodies and spirits bearing the scars of time’s relentless advance. It’s incredibly painful to witness, especially when it’s the people I love.
It’s a cruel twist. Some people exit as if life closed their book without warning. Others linger, caught in a strange limbo where time drags on painfully, turning their existence into a lesson or maybe a warning we can’t fully grasp until we’re there ourselves. And through it all, life’s script marches forward, with or without us, while we watch the bittersweet unraveling of those who once shared the stage. No do-overs here.
By now, I’ve seen more sunrises than I can count, and taken life’s highs and lows straight up, no chaser. And now they want me to reflect? Reflection’s not some easygoing afternoon in the park—it’s staring down every triumph, every screw-up, every back-alley turn that led me here. It’s asking what still feeds the soul and what’s just dead weight pulling me down. I now choose to let the dead weight go. Every second counts—there’s no room for idle baggage.
Of course, we all carry baggage. But ideally, it’s a briefcase, not a steamer trunk. Sonny Rollins once told me, “I just want to live lightly on this planet.” Words to live by.
All those things that won’t go away—the approval, the ambition, the mountain of useless possessions—they’re just ballast in a sinking ship. Real wealth? It’s laughter, it’s people who know you, it’s moments that crackle like live wires in the mind. Everything else is noise. Cut it, clear it, move on.
This is the hour to go full throttle on authenticity. I spent decades navigating other people’s bullshit. Now? Screw their opinions. These days, everybody’s a critic. Neighbors gossip, family yammers—let ‘em. I’ve seen enough to know only one thing matters: my own damn truth. And the critics? As Ben Hecht said, they’re just midgets juggling cannonballs.
Look around, assess the dead weight, and burn what isn’t serving me. Burn baby burn. Obligations, routines, leeches disguised as friends—they’re cut. This isn’t cruelty; this is survival. Only those who bring life get a ticket to the final act, and even then, they usually fit on one hand.
And here’s the big one—time to stop comparing myself to the next guy. By now, I know everyone’s wrestling their own demons. I’ve built something—imperfect, sure, but it’s mine. I let go of past mistakes; they’re fossils now. Let go of the constant hustle. Life’s not a rat race; it’s a high-stakes game, and the house always wins if you’re not careful. Sometimes the best move is to sit back, savor the silence, and laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Set goals that make sense for who I am now, not for some younger, hungrier version of myself. Forget money, status, the damn legacy. Think peace, connection, and a little sanity. Letting go of old shackles is like fresh air after a long storm. Now’s the time to stop clinging to grudges; let them dissolve like smoke. Now’s the time for clarity—the “lightness of being” is within reach, if I dare.
So, I ask myself, “What dead weight will I torch today?” Whether it’s validation, a closet full of junk, or some soul-sucking commitment, let it go. Aging isn’t a prison; it’s freedom if I play it right—a chance to finally live in the moment and revel in the strange beauty of it all.
Because, in the end, we’re not here to prove anything, just to survive with dignity and a little flair. For me, these are some of the best years yet—I’m too damn old to care what anyone else thinks, and that, my friend, is freedom.
At any age!
You embody the spirit of authenticity my friend! xo