The Lost Habit of Ecstasy

The man on stage with the guitar sweats and struggles, the instrument rigid in his writhing hands as he bangs his head and grimaces in joy. I know these songs, the songs of my not-too-distant late youth, and I can recall the radiant shocks of pleasure they once conjured in my gut that were in direct proportion to the desire I felt to escape what was once an almost constant depression.

That depression is gone now, and I watch the concert with a sort of detached contentment, a focused and alert enjoyment that does not seek to escape anything, but simply observes. I am sort of leery of this feeling, and wonder if this is what getting healthy feels like, or if it's just getting old - but then I look around at all the middle-aged men in the venue, and decide to just relax.