How’s this for a painting?  It’s called “Hopscotch” – created by Richard Sargent.

I figure Richard got it right.  Middle-aged man being a kid, with actual kids.  And them enjoying his jumps.  None of “I’m too old to …” and similar nonsense.

We each are so particular, a unique flavour in the ice cream shop – one that’s never been tasted before.  Let’s get a spoon and sample each tub of goodness.

I see a world where all of us go towards rather than back away from.  Where we see someone approaching on the street and start waving.  Maybe we don’t know them but we know them.

There’s more waving, this time from behind windows, greeting us as we pass by.  And it’s so natural to return the hello.

Nobody walks anymore.  That’s too measured, too tied to the Earth.  Instead we dance through our days … and continue till we fall down dead.

Paragraphs no longer escape our lips.  It’s all poetry.  And who cares if it doesn’t rhyme?

Pastel colours massage our souls.  And there are no border lines.  A master artist takes her or his tissue and blends green into blue.

The fences have all fallen down.  We the horses of the world run free – fast, sweating, happy.

I’m curious about your life, and you about mine.  We learn from each other.  We taste other languages, skin colours, ages, clothing, sexual orientations, joy, sorrows …

The word of the day, and every day, is “Yes”.  Love lives in the moment. 

The mouth forgets how to frown.  But it does remember how to curl upwards.  And to borrow a thought from Stephen King, “Our smiles reach our eyes.”

Then … when all is said and done

We stop talking

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