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Sometimes I forget that I’ve aged. My head and my heart seem to play this cruel trick on me, deceiving me with the false illusion of youth by greeting the world every day through the idealistic, mischievous eyes of a rebellious child finding happiness and appreciation in the most basic, simple things.
To me, that is beauty. Not the gleam of prefabricated perfection, but the road-worn beauty of individuality, time, and wisdom.
I have always measured my life in musical increments rather than months or years.
“Now YOU know what it’s like to nervously sit in an audience as YOUR child steps onstage for the first time to follow their life passion with a funny haircut, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.”
“But, beyond any biological information, there is love. Something that defies all science and reason. And that I am most fortunate to have been given. It’s maybe the most defining factor in anyone’s life. Surely an artist’s greatest muse. And there is no love like a mother’s love. It is life’s greatest song. We are all indebted to the women who have given us life. For without them, there would be no music.”
IT DAWNED ON ME THAT MAYBE MY GUITAR WAS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE AFTER ALL.
What could be more inspiring than the exposed nerves of a wounded heart?
I cherish my numerous heartbreaks almost more than the actual love that preceded them, because the heartbreak has always proven to me that I can feel.
the sweet sting of a love refused is powerful enough to send any scribe scrambling for pen and paper, aching to find beauty in the p...
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