Master of the Tall Tale

There was a time when I felt ten feet tall, but now I feel ten feet small.

Back when I was young, I had friends and people knew me. We talked, laughed, and shared our thoughts.

I walked with a pep in my step, a smile on my face, and with no concern for the days ahead.

Time had no meaning. Growing old and money were the least of my worries.

I wanted to see the world, and I believed the world wanted to see me.

I hurried from place to place and wasted away the days as if they would never end.

It was amazing to be unconscious of my surroundings, and negligent of my future.

Regret was a misunderstanding, not something to be dwelt upon.

Being young was great, or so I thought.

Time marched forward and as each year passes, I feel  insignificant and unseen.

My list of friends are fewer, and making new ones is difficult.

My pace is slower, I rarely smile, and I worry too much about the days ahead.

Weather and money are all I think about and time presses hard against me.

I have many memories of my crazy life and of them all, I have only one regret - about a girl I should not have left.

I no longer hurry, and I waste away the days wondering if my life had worth.

It feels horrible to be old, ever conscious of the inevitable waning future.

We are all unique

Then again, maybe it's good to be old, and perhaps I should be revered as a walking, talking genius of life.

At the tavern, I babble on for hours about the incredible wonders of the world; weave unbelievable and inconceivable tales with vast fantastical claims of great achievements, only because I know the truth of my accomplishments. In the tavern, I am the master of stories, and I regale the patrons with vivid imagination, and I use lots of old clichés.

Oh, there are those who try to refute my yarns, but I stand firm, brandishing my oldness and my wit, and I slay their Google master with fabricated truth. I don't care if they laugh at me or with me; what matters is that they're laughing.

The information age is upon us and all seek the truth in everything. But truth cannot be created with just words, it requires substance, personality, and character. 

A clever, old story teller often tells the truth, and garnishes the tale with colorful words that paint pictures in the minds of all who listen. Unfortunately, the listeners prefer to believe the words of a stranger from a distant world (the internet), who seeks only to sway their minds and gain their trust; a rabbit hole.

  

“It ain’t over till the old frog croaks!”

j/k