(When I was 58 …)

[An old draft entry that I just checked for errors and then inadvertently published for the very first time.  58 would make this ca. 2013 or so.  So view it as something ‘historical’.]

Salvete, qui legunt –

I am 58 years old at this point. Compared to many, I’ve never had a life – but that’s to be judged from which point of view? My default (or automatic) point of view is that I’ve had a simply defective life; that others have had the laurels, the striving, the “bling” of it all. Why do I even reflect on that? I am not the others; I am not “normal”. If I am polite, it comes of fear – the need to manage people to avoid negative face – blame, shame and anger. If I read, it is because I search for some Bling of Knowledge that will validate what I am and save me the expense of hardship and self-discipline. Or I read for pleasure, to escape work, work, work….

From a more reflective point of view, I’ve simply had MY life – personal, inconsiderable, and more or less unique.  In these later years, I’m still trying to come to terms with my own ignorance, and with my own tendency (seen above) to wallow in facile self-criticism. 

Valete.

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