My words seem to become less important the older I get. Despite decades of hoping for wisdom and that I will learn to write better … I fear this may never be the case.
These are dark days indeed. Global warming, pandemic, war in Europe that has begun with Russia invading the Ukraine. Putin is a coward hiding with his money and lies letting the kulaks die for his pride.
Like the millions that have come before us the sweep of time and history does not give us a warning of what will happen. But many of us are filled with a great sense of foreboding and anguish. I cannot help but think there is great suffering to come by the many billions across the world and it is all we can do to simply survive and try and prepare.
For now I can only try to be content in my words and actions. It is for me alone to review in the years ahead if I am lucky enough to survive. I know I want my words and life meant something and working as a nurse I used to think that I was contributing something… But now I am even in doubt of this seemingly humble goal.
In the end, at least for me, I believe that the right and only course of action is to do the right thing. At this moment in time it is to live with the woman of my dreams and to lessen the impact that we have upon the planet, to try and do some good to help others survive. For anything I say right now is lost to history.
There will be no one to read these words out of the multitudes of words written every day. Who is to say that what I write has any dept or meaning now or in the future. It is for me I write . . . hoping, hoping, hoping for lasting meaning.
