Dear Cicero,
I am not yet old, neither am I young, and this bridging age which may yet last a decade or more, gives me pause to consider the span of years remaining to me, and to ask questions. I am old enough now to admit my ignorance in all things, and young enough to still be driven by mad passions, some of which are beneficial, some of which are little short of self harm.
There is a lot of my life yet to live, (I hope), and with those years I intend to read many thousands of books, to sing songs, write poems, and write my own books. This year will finally see the publication of my first book, a tiny illustrated volume called "My Goblin Therapist". My ambitions are important to me, and I sense that there will never be enough time to see them all realised, and yet at the same time, I am developing a sense of my limits. I am sensing what is within my grasp to achieve, and working every day to achieve those goals I have set myself.
How many years do I have left? I am forty two (next month), so I hope for another 38 years of life. Yet, as you say Cicero, would even another eighty years satisfy me?
Satisfaction. Is it a choice? Is it the reward of hard work? How much life is enough life? Can anything that has an end be said to be long?
I'll have an answer for you one day Cicero, but don't hold your breath.
With gratitude and respect
Morgan.
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