You want to talk to me, son?

You want to talk to me, son?

You say you want to talk to me, but I don’t think you understand what talking to me is like. I am well at the end of my beautiful and dramatic life. I have lived over five decades.

You?
You are barely breaking in to your second decade.
And doing it miserably, I might add.
But I can remember myself at your age. So I understand your restlessness, but we weren’t this restless. We didn’t need to constantly reach for a semi glass bar ‘like’ 85 times a day.  Our brains’ had not evolved to get Dopamine rushes when we hear a smartphone ping.

So can you do it son? Can you actually have  a conversation with me?
You need to know what a conversation with me is like.
It’s mostly me remembering stories and telling you about my life. Telling you about various dramatic moments or periods of my life where I learnt something. Hoping that in some way it will help you live yours.
Maybe it’s just me suddenly remembering a memory that I have not thought about so much recently. A memory that only came up due to the meandering memories visited  during a conversation with someone four decades younger.
A memory that deserves to be relived in my mind’s eye. A memory I want to tell you all about, the entire story. For no other reason, but to hope that you shall remember it and that in some way that beautiful memory shall live after me.

These kind of conversations, my son, require undue attention. We could talk to each other for hours, and I really can not have you reach for that ugly glass brick. If you feel like you going to reach for it or get distracted in any way, I would much rather just not have a conversation with you.

You say you want to talk to me, have a conversation with me.
Well, now you know what it entails.

So,
You want to talk to me son?

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