Eighty years or so

I have always craved certainty,

particularly in regard to those two hidden treasures,

identity and purpose;

are we not all compelled at some point to query,

"Who am I?"

and,

"What am I here for?"

Yet even as I have furiously sought for dead certain answers thereto,

I have failed to reflect on the one thing which I am -

which indeed, all of us are -

most certain of:

that I will be gone within eighty years or so.

To live in fear is paradoxical:

it is both watered and choked by the knowledge of our own brevity.

"I mustn't waste this shrinking, shimmering pool of time!"

(so I often think.)

Time is a mystery commodity, whose true scarcity remains unknown,

Until, I suppose, it is too late - and all is lost. (?)

And so every choice can be considered and reconsidered to death,

fueled by an anxiety unending.

To fret over such trifles as

appearance,

popularity,

credibility,

or reputation,

is, of course, utter, utter folly.

None of these liars or jesters hold the keys

to the aforementioned, long-lost treasures

whose absence aches in our chests.

But I dare not digress further, with such limited time remaining.

The point is this:

That the knowledge of our brevity can inspire us toward courageous pursuit of this life,

not only fearful retreat from it.

I will be gone within eighty years or so -

so let me live a life as free, wise, brave and kind as is allowed for or demanded of me,

often forgiving, and often forgiven,

apologizing, defending,

good-humored and hopeful,

with as much humility as can be managed,

(a devilishly tricky thing to get a handle on)

failing endlessly,

but trying again,

and making peace with each crucial step

and misstep

on this briefest of sojourns.