Ain't that so — it's more like a race against time.
If I could be bothered to do the obligatory Google search, I'm sure there's a well-trodden path exploring and illuminating why, as we age, time speeds up — that's if you even believe in the concept (some don't).
To be honest, those last few words sound a bit hollow, a bit bland or certainly they don't capture the heartfelt sense of loss I feel in knowing that I'm careering towards, if I'm not already there, the last third of my life.
So much to do, so little time to do it.
In my case, this isn't new.
Even in my early years, I still had the feeling that time was not on my side, which I'm sure explains my extreme work ethic and the need for success — don't guffaw.
The problem is, despite a degree of analysis about what I might want to do — more like an existential crisis or two (Who am I?) — I'm still not sure if I'm making the best use of my time. Who does? I know I can be too easily distracted, waste time doing the wrong things and I can procrastinate like the best of them.
To be honest, and I mean this, I wish I had found my calling or not thrashed around so much in the dark, and, at times, the bitter undergrowth of underachievement.
I could big it up but then again, as I think about the trail of breadcrumbs I've left by dint of my work, relationships and the odd bit of give-a-shit, there ain't much to show for it.
Ye gads, that came out all wrong. That sounds as if I've got some big f* off ego where all I want is a massive tombstone congratulating me ex-post death on what a brilliant dude I was.
It's nothing of the sort!
As soppy as it might sound, I want to know that my life mattered. It was a gift after all, and I don't want to feel I've squandered it doing all or a lot of the wrong things. I'd like to think, still, that things might change. I've certainly seen glimpses over the last 30+ years where a few of my ideas have, in an attritional sense, started to gather heat and to that extent there's still hope.
When I say hope, I don't mean the let's-mortgage-the-future type hope but a desire that the gods will continue to smile on me with grace and love just long enough for me to do one last thing which I can look back on or others might talk about and say:
I (or he) cared.
Not much of an epitaph I'll grant you but it'll do for me in the same way, strange as it sounds, that Charles Bukowski's gravestone says, "Don't try".
Anyhow, I think that's enough of my existential warblings. There are virtual places to go, documents to read — most are snooze-worthy, sadly — and lots of coffee to be drunk and enjoyed.
Have a beautiful day.
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