At sixty it seems, your best ideas have already gone. The energy and force that you once took for granted is leaking out like a car tire rapidly going flat. The life that you have been promising to lead despite the inconvenient desires of youth is an impossibility from the intervening years of cumulative habit that have made you into something otherwise. That water long ago flowing under your bridge of “one day” or “tomorrow” now being half way around the world tickling the obscurity of the Marianas trench. The memories and provisos long ago forged are functionally meaningless to your present tense existence for you have learned that the fundamentally “why” of human existence is not what you are going to do but what you have all along ended up doing when push came to a shove. You are only represented by the balance sheet however imperfect as it might stand today. This is the reality one faces when your own movies prove you to be naught but another old buffoon struggling to maintain the fiction that you haven’t substantially changed in the rambling interim of too many decades long gone.
The pillars of daily existence fall quickly amidst the dust of incessant and arbitrary progress. Each successive iteration finds their identities bound up in the destruction and eventual selective re-discovery of one previous to it. Give the proverbial chimpanzee a typewriter to bang upon for a hundred thousand years and he will write Shakespeare. But by that time in the future, no one will know or care who Shakespeare was anyway. In fact what assures one that anyone then will even need to be able to read by then? The sum total of one’s life is condemned by the tenets of modern existence to one day be consigned a conveyor belt on its way to the landfill. All ones greatest works to equally share this ignoble fate. You can’t take it with you, nor can you safely leave it behind. You can only share it in the present and hope that someone becomes interested enough in it that they will want to enjoy it.
The legacy of men and women can only be their children and the prospective offspring of same. Technology and the hubris of its ownership is as doomed as the Titanic. The culmination of reflections of one’s self in the mirror a Medusa laying in wait to petrify future illusions. Truth is a hard stick that continually batters one’s ego. It is hard to make a decision to forego what one has always known and leave the safe harbor of the illusion of one’s self. But then is this not that journey that is always spoken of in lore and legend? The older one gets, the more certain that one will be alone left to their own devices. Will one try to reconstruct the shattered mirror of one’s bygone existence? Or will one abandon its smoldering wreckage and move on taking only the knowledge that they are the sum total of all who have gone before them and those others who they will one day meet?