Regrets

I don't have many regrets in life.

I've lived how I've wanted to live and at 45, I've accepted the consequences of those decisions. Some have been terribly painful and others no more than a bug bite.

At the end of the day, I'm a man who has done it my way and done it unapologetically. It's not a life for everyone.

It's a poem that unravels with tragedy and ecstasy; so many highs and so many lows, with little time spent meandering in the middle where the rest of the world exists.

It's been a life of extremes. I don't know any other way to do it, though I've long wished I could.

Common sense, or at least what's obvious to others, has always been a mystery to me.

I live in a world of song, dreams, and poetry; of confusion, risk, and maps that I throw out the window. I live in colorful imaginations of delusion that I cannot articulate. I live in isolation, in lonely crags, in granite caves of exquisite beauty, but alone. I live on long bladed shores of tranquil southern ponds. I live in Lennon’s heart and Dylan’s brain; in the Irish blood of Van Morrison I bathe.