Age 66. Forgotten by the world. Ignored and rightly so.
But, you know, some days I can believe I’ll figure in the future, beyond myself and my circumscribed world. Today I finished a chapter after savagely tough days (at least that’s how they felt). And sitting here, a balmy Melbourne evening, red wine in hand (no, it’s not the wine talking), I can believe or imagine or pretend that I’ll be a superstar of the printed word, with a legacy that blitzes the obituary.
Me. The future. Me.
You will be, a superstar of the printed word. Be definite. The manner in which it shows, though, is not. But be definite. It will happen, or you will die trying. You cannot lose.
Maybe I am the manner it shows. We can be open to that possibility.