Life

Life is like a book. Page one, in the beginning… The first couple of chapters are written not from memory but from the viewpoint of others. The chapters give some backstory to explain what happens later. The following chapters describe the twists and turns that make up everyone’s life. And finally the last chapter, but it isn’t the end of the story. The story of our lives continues after our bodies have returned to dust.

The epilogue of the story is how our lives affected the lives of others. We really never die as long as we are remembered; by family, by those, we affected and hopefully by good friends.  As a writer, I hope my writings live on. I have no progeny and it pains me to think that after I depart this mortal coil my writings may also languish and become dust. I realize that to some my writings may seem banal but they are a part of me. Each one a small piece of me, words and stories from the bits and pieces that comprise my time here on Earth.  What I felt at the time I wrote them, I hoped to evoke the same feeling in others that I was feeling at that time. In each work I would place parts of me and often archaic or little-used words, not to appear erudite but to challenge the reader to expand their vocabulary and thus expand their world.

I have refrained from writing anything that would hurt good people. I have kept secret things that might embarrass acquaintances. Some are aware of the incidents and the facts that I have kept hidden. I believe everyone has some things that they would not share. I have been accused of having a self-depreciating sense of humor, but I know the truth and if other’s think it is funny, I will not dispute them. I can laugh at myself in public and in private; rue my mistakes and shortcomings.  Often my writings deal with dark subjects or heartbreak, these poems or stories were written because to me they were cathartic. They actually celebrate real life and emotions. These are the writings that were penned in blood. Some might consider them doggerel, but for me, they were the closing of a door or the burning of a bridge and necessary for my continuation of life.

To the outside or to history I would appear to be normal. Few people are aware of the extent of my knowledge or experience. I have been present at several events which made the news, but my role was covered up except maybe in some dusty files in secret archives.  Over the years I have adopted several different personae for my work that allowed me to glide through the various strata of society, but they were all a part of me. Looking back over them I have been able to see the minutia of truth behind the curtain of lies and found myself looking at myself in the mirror. Like many others, I feel that I am a good man who has done bad things for the greater good. I occasionally see people who are only alive because of my actions, but I also see people whom I know have committed heinous acts still walking free. Do my successes outweigh my losses? I don’t know.

Do I have some regrets? I must answer yes. Would I do somethings differently? Yes, I would.  The question I ask myself is if I altered the past would I be the person I am today? Could I have positively impacted as many people? Would I? These are not philosophical questions for the light of day; these are the questions that torment an aging man’s thoughts.