TomFlannery.com

We dream goofy things growing up. We stand in front of the mirror pretending. Mostly to be someone else. To be somewhere else. To experience something else.

But it gradually dawns that we’re pretty much stuck with ourselves. So the dreams go hide and are replaced by things like jobs and bill collectors and empty beer cans in the backseat of yet another brand new used car. But it runs. Looking good getting there doesn’t matter so much anymore when you were born during the LBJ administration.

We grow up. We grow out. Hair either turns grey or slips away. For some poor wretches, both. We find our life partner. We have children that delight and inspire and infuriate and terrify. Sometimes all in the same day. We lay our heads down at night, too weary mostly to be anything other than content that we have a warm bed to lie in. And then, if we’re lucky, we have 8 hours to dream all over again.

And the cycle starts again. And that’s life. And somewhere in the middle, there’s guitars. And that makes it ok.

In a bit…

–tf