EnTrOpY

“Getting old ain’t for sissies.” ~ Sherry Sparks

Every day is a battle, a war against staying the same, letting gravity take hold, or fighting against the forces of time that drag us downward. The more I live, the harder it gets to make the choice to do better, to be the optimist in the room, and to push forward against all that seems to be holding us back.

It is a courageous act to roll out of bed in the morning, punch the clock or fix your tie, then head into a world that values youth more than any other commodity.

I don’t want to coast, to be the coffee-drinking porch-sitter than reminisces and shuns the forward view, who holds nostalgia in higher regard than progress. But the tractor beam of aging will continue to draw us in, changing our blurry view and making us reassess our goals in light of the inevitable course that we all face.

I will not continue to get in better and better shape, write my “magnum opus,” or regain my youthful health and vigor; those days have likely passed. But I can re-mold this sculpture into something that I can be proud of, if I will only fight the battles that I know I can win and acquiesce to the things I cannot control. But oh to know the difference.

The future is not likely to be the vision that you once had, especially if you are a product of the 1960s or 1970s, but with the right lens we can see clearly the path forward.

Is it time to start over, or start again? I am not sure if I am ready for such a commitment, but I know that there are many adventures yet to begin if I can only muster the strength to find them. Is there room for optimism in the last 1/3 of your life? I certainly hope so. For I cannot thrive on the crumbs of pessimism.

 

Robots

How do we know that we are not robots?

Sometimes the stories we hear and the tales we tell seem to loop and flow like they have happened in a previous life. We live in an eternal state of deja vu.

How do we know that we will make the right choices?

Sometimes the path forward seems as clear as a fall morning, and sometimes it drifts away in a hazy fog never to be found again. We are led astray by optimistic angels and determined demons that swirl and battle inside our troubled dreams.

How do we know that we have not been here before?

Sometimes I think about how flesh and bone sat where we now sit and eked out an existence, only to close their eyes in rest from flesh-eating demons yet to be discovered. We are on that same destination of corruptible flesh, held together by beeping machines and silent prayers.

How do we know if someone is writing our code?

Sometimes we read from the history books about the astounding feats of bravery and even greater episodes of evil and wonder if we possess the programming to write a different storyline. We share the same DNA and the potential for triumph and tragedy flows unceasingly through our veins.

How do we know that robots did not invent us in their image?

Sometimes a novel has an ending that we would have written and sometimes the conclusion is as perplexing as the conflicting stories that are carved inside us. We must create the future with the hands that we were given and use our minds to free ourselves from the viruses of anxiety, fear, and perfectionism.  

How do I know that I did not write this just to prove that I am human?