I will be young.
I will be cool, hip, chic.
I will be full of vibrant, youthful energy, free from the tribulations of this world.
My step will spring with a swagger untouchable by tedium.
I will see the world through eyes overflowing with curiosity, joy, and wonder.
New trends will spring forth from my body like melodies from the fingertips of a pianist.
I will blaze the trail to unexplored frontiers with the lantern of my impulse and the compass of my creativity, and there I will revel in sights unseen and sounds unspoken.
I will dance under the moonlight just because it makes me happy.
I will be old.
I will be dutiful, seasoned, venerable.
I will value maturity, discipline, tradition.
I will sweat under a million sequential sunsets to build a bottomless well of wisdom brick by brick, and I will flood it with the oceans of my experience.
I will summit the mountain of perfection using my mistakes as footholds.
I will temper my decisions in the furnace of my responsibility.
I will bask in the moonlight of the centuries as they wax and wane before me, and I will understand the significance of time.
I will be quiet.
I will be mindful, contemplative, observant.
My mind will settle like water in a still pond, and I will be at peace with my reflection on its surface.
I will listen to others with rapt attention, and their insight will be the sweetness of ripe fruit bursting on my tongue.
I will treasure the input of my peers as my own child.
I will understand the Dalai Lama when he tells me, "When you speak, you are only repeating what you already know. But if you listen, you may learn something new."
I will be loud.
I will be boisterous, enthusiastic, assertive.
My ideas will bubble up and cascade over my tongue like a waterfall, and its deluge will submerge the streets.
My convictions are a pack of wolves, and I will not let them hunger.
The tree of my certitudes will not wither in some forgotten darkness; it will thrive in the sunlight of my voice.
I will fire the missile of self-expression off the launchpad of my confidence, and its explosion will put the stars to shame.
Heinlein was right: specialization is for insects -- but I am human, and my humanity reveals how a thing contains its opposite.
Whitman was right: I contain multitudes -- but I do not contradict
myself, for the dualities within me are not in conflict; they are
dancers, in flawless harmony.
I will not be slave to dichotomy. But then again -- I will.
