In six days, I will turn 44. A tad too late to die when one is a genius. Some other late bloomer great artists started creating only as they reached their forties...
But that isn't the point. Birthday. Does it mean I'll be celebrating it, go out, party with friends? Unlikely. I'm not displeased with myself. But nothing that I want to celebrate. I still have some dreams inside. I may find it hard to believe in love - jaded? but there is still a glimmer of hope. Music and creativity still enchant me - so do children and the sight of a tree or a plant, walking on the street and observe people, watching the sun going down, hearing the song of the solitary blackbird at dusk... For how long?
I won't see anybody. William, perhaps? The story is still going on - dragging along, shall I say, although I wonder what is actually going on. The idea of love...
I'll switch off my phone, my computer. No cake, no candle, no flowers, no funeral wreath.
I won't see anybody. William, perhaps? The story is still going on - dragging along, shall I say, although I wonder what is actually going on. The idea of love...
I'll switch off my phone, my computer. No cake, no candle, no flowers, no funeral wreath.
I was reading pages from Elliot Jaques' book Death and Mid-Life Crisis. One word stood out: contemplative pessimism.
