A cynic might see this as a mid-life crisis. A middle-aged man coming to terms with his own mortality and the panic that comes from the collapsing of opportunity as the inevitable approaches and dreams become impossible in the face of that horizon.
I mention a cynic's perspective because that is what I am. Through my own introspection, I've decided this has always been what I am, and to me I can find no other explanation for what I'm doing here.
I write. I cannot draw or paint. I don't have the confidence to act. I can build a few things and fix a few more, but those projects rarely go smoothly and often pause to allow my temper to cool down. This never happens when I write. For that reason alone, I write here, and other places.
Welcome.
Hold on tight.
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