Confronting your own mortality seems an easy enough task. In any case, it should be for me. I've spent almost as much time wanting to die as dying from various maladies. Nevertheless, I am finding that having an expiration date, a real, potential nevermore is somehow different from theory or weariness. I have spent the last two weeks struggling with my body, struggling with speaking, struggling to human like other people, and it seems to me that I might run out of time before I make it far enough down my path to have a good place to exit.
Age 58 seems to be a portentous time in my family -- a time when our bodies succumb to some catastrophic event or malady. When I was 48, I thought that I should get a move on, get things written, get things accomplished. Instead, I spent my time focused on other people, trying to build communities, trying to heal wounds and build bonds, trying to be a light (such as it is) in darkness, and trying to help the next generation find their place. It sounds like hubris, and perhaps it is, but when sunset comes, my hope is that the darkness that follows contains hope like points of stars. In any case, I will be 53 in December, and looking back at my small attempts to influence the world, and looking forward at the possibility that I may only have 5 years left, I have been feeling a bit lost at sea. So, I am looking for some kind of constellation to guide me to some new vision, some new version of myself. But there is no grand scheme or plan. There is no certainty one way or another.
So, Trevor and I will simply have to walk hand in hand, step by step, day by day until the music box wears down and all that remains is the tinny, thin memory of a distantly familiar song.