What Makes Sense at This Point?

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What makes sense at this point?

I’ve been reflecting on the path forward, as I often do. While my personal life these days is calm, beautiful, and creatively fulfilling (I just had a screenplay optioned, a step toward fulfilling a long cherished dream), I can’t help but feel the omnipresent, grievous weight of the world. What’s happening in Gaza — genocide, mass starvation — is incomprehensible. What’s happening in Washington DC — a kakistocracy where the most venal, corrupt people are winning everything — is horrifying. “The people” seem more lost, in some overarching abstract sense. The young stare into their screens, “distracted by distraction,” while their future is forfeited.

On the one hand, at 58, I am relatively content. On the other, I feel this constant, gnawing sense of guilt and failure. As strange as this sounds, I feel like I have failed to accomplish the mission I was sent to Earth (by whom?) to fulfill. This engenders an anxious sense of loss: Could I, somehow, get one more chance? Will those who have never listen to me continue to not take what I say as seriously (and comically) as it is meant? I’m almost ready now — finally ready, like Greta Garbo, for my close-up.

I was always an odd creature. I was never a “stable citizen” of the realm. More like one of those odd eccentrics who never fits in: a strange amalgam of broken fragments, odd bits and pieces.