I always felt a twinge of anxiety any time someone asked me to write something. It made me feel an obligation to pander to their individual proclivities, or to somehow be complimentary or flattering. But then I had a revelation the other day. Being asked to put words down on a page was a request to see more of me. Yes, in fact, being asked for a new post, or a story is a voyeuristic act on behalf of the petitioner. And I, being a closeted exhibitionist, should be quite pleased to oblige.
Writing is sometimes a difficult task. These words here are a reflection of what makes me me. Left to my own devices with no direction in which to write, the path becomes the sum of sub-conscious tendencies that are exclusively mine. No agenda. No endgame. Just this guy. And to know that this guy is a topic of interest, enough for someone to ask for an unabridged look inside, is a sincere compliment. And the difficulty comes in being honest about what is written. Being unabridged to another, the reader, demands being unabridged with the writing-self.
My life is scary, to be blunt. No, I don't live in crime or poverty ridden areas, but this pervasive fear fills a small oil lamp in the back of my mind. It's a small flicker of dread rather than a blindingly bright horror. But it's always there, chasing away the shadows of certainty. It's enough of a reminder that what I have can be lost that I'm never positive that I have a handle on things. Yes, having been told that I once had the appearance of a man who 'had his shit together', I know that I'm really just an ice skater balanced on a thin edge of relative success.
I grew up in a faith that said my life would end and my knowledge would cease. Perhaps I would be brought back to life by a God that intended me to live forever, but that depended a great deal on what endeavors I sought in this life. Contrary to that faith, I have grown more agnostic as I've gotten older. I do not know if there is a God, let alone one who cares. The religion of my youth has become insufficient to explain many of the things that science is learning. The red shift of cosmic expansion, Higgs-Bosun, habitable exoplanets, and the eventual death of Sol, all point to a system of expiration and renewal. So I ponder frequently an inverse of Pascal's Wager. If there is no God, I have to make this life count. What I do and leave for people to remember will be the only chance I have had. If I'm wrong and there is a God, then a life lived in the pursuit of meaningful contribution can't be a bad thing.
But what is meaningful? Is it love? People inspired to be better? Or is it just a positive influence on others' lives? I don't know what makes me a good person and I agonize over doing the wrong thing with the few years I have. I worry about doing the wrong things for my kid and pursuing the wrong relationships.
The odd thing about life is that it is a series of choices that you cannot go back and unmake. At the end of your life, you are left with the choices that you pursued and the consequences that they rendered. I don't want to get to my twilight years and think that I didn't do the best I could with the time that I had. I don't want to remember old faces with longing. I want to remember them with pride. I don't want any of the paths I take to be ones that I later question.
But I don't get that luxury. My days will march forward, unfettered. In the thirty or forty years to come, each day will be another step in the journey, and I will eventually run out of 'tomorrows'. And each day I will ask myself, "Did you do something worthwhile today?" Each day I will ask myself, "Are you a good man?"
Am I a good man?
The mirror does not answer. And because of that, I am afraid.
