I have walked this earth for over four decades—long enough to have seen time pass, seasons change, and people come and go. Yet, if I’m being honest, my name hasn’t exactly made waves. I didn’t invent anything remarkable, didn’t build an empire, and haven’t left a deep imprint in any field. Mine was a life of small steps, of showing up to average jobs, doing just enough to get by, and never really finding that “calling” people always talk about. I drifted through time more like a leaf in the wind than a man on a mission.
My career, if it can be called that, has been a string of underwhelming chapters. I never climbed any proverbial ladders or broke through any ceilings. I spent years clocking in and out, watching others rise while I remained in place. Some might say I lacked ambition, others might call it fear or just plain apathy. The truth is probably somewhere in between. I always told myself I had time, but time has a way of slipping past when you’re not paying attention.
Now, with a history of mild stroke and a recent myocardial infarction behind me, the reality of my condition sits heavy. No doctor gave me a deadline, but based on how I feel—how tired my body is, how fragile it’s become—I’ve given myself maybe five more years. It’s a guess, not a prophecy. But it has a strange way of sharpening the view, of bringing things into painful focus. Mortality feels less like an abstract idea and more like an approaching train I can hear in the distance.
There is no legacy bearing my name. No books, no children, no awards or footprints etched into history. But I’m still here, breathing, thinking, feeling. Perhaps that’s enough in its own way. I write this not to inspire pity or even reflection, but simply to say: I lived. Maybe not greatly, maybe not boldly—but I was here. And in this quiet corner of the internet, that truth will remain, even if just for a while.