The Gatekeeper

Oh, troubled soul, one eye on the sands of time. To embrace excitement of the future, only to be tempered by the noise of others. Is this external or is it embedded, forged, and hardened by life’s theater? My own words can be toxic, old man looking in the mirror. For others to shape expectations and beliefs requires acquiescence. Why should one care? Why should one listen? Who are those who have a vested interest in limiting choices, giving the illusion of freedom, blocking what truly matters? There are many who are quick to define boundaries, some distant and some close. Their words can spark anger, resentment. Elliot, you are right, old men ought to be explorers. Who dares define one’s limits, capabilities, options? To see the potential of throwaways made obsolete by youth, or so current wisdom goes. To embrace the heat of fire, to reshape what so many are willing to discard into the shed of obsoletes. I will not give you that power. I will not allow you to define my boundaries. The space around me can be dense. Intolerance to boundaries, no longer ascribed to petulant youth, a quality of the searching soul. I will not breed discontent from inaction. Longfellow’s words resonate,

"For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away and the sky is filled with stars, invisible by the day."