The Facebook message wasted no words: "Are you the same Ron Davis that hung up on Bob Barker many years ago?"
The same Ron Davis, yes — but now I am in autumn and I am frustrated because there is still so much to do and know. I have lived many years and done many things, but not nearly enough things to slake my immense thirst for living.
Living is a fine thing, a boisterous thing, and in my time I have enjoyed more living than most men. I have embraced danger with bonhomie, frolicked with it in the witching hour. The memories of my raucous times remain vivid because they do not exist only in my past. I continue to splash the canvas of life with bold colors and strong strokes of my brush, and the very few people who know me can attest to my swagger.
If these sound like boasts, it is because they are. I do not apologize.
Even in my autumn there is fire, and desire, and a willingness to romp to the edge of the cliff. There is no joy in being cautious, in mincing steps and tentative half-measures. Those things disgust me. They are for the weak of spirit.
I know this because I have known weakness myself — I have lived in those empty rooms and felt myself falter, and there have been times when I believed a headlong sprint into oblivion was preferable to staying in this world. I am not ashamed to admit it. My only shame was in believing such an outrageous lie.
There is much time before my winter sets in. My interesting life is far from complete. I still have mountains to conquer and scores to settle. I will get what I want.