So the war carries on, breaking out in this place and that place. Part of the war, as always, is the battle for attention and sympathy. I’m torn between sympathy for nobody and total sympathy and despair for not only the victims but those who driven to make war. It seems a horrible way to live and fueled by something frightful. I don’t know. I only know that I can’t be a part of it. It’s too consuming and I feel too old and tired to be of any use. This is a pursuit for younger men whose manic passions and fears allow the luxury of hate and rage.

I have just grown tired and want no part of it. What constitutes old is a contentious topic so let’s just say that I have reached that odd juncture where I’m excited by things like soup. And I can reveal to you that if you see three or more men of 50 or more talking, you can be assured that the conversation will invariably turn to some invasive medical procedure or another. The words diagnosis and prognosis come up often. The problems you will have cannot be mitigated by diet and exercise.

This is the deal though. Younger men toss around words like acceptance not understanding that beyond a certain time, the things we must all accept carry a certain gravity and permanence.

It starts when pop stars your age start to shuffle off this mortal coil. People will say it was too young or too soon. What does that even mean when it happens too often to be called a fluke? Some of your friends might go too and that’s strange and sad. You’re left back being comforted by your adult children and watching your parents’ entire generation pass on. They go and you are then at the head of your class listening to someone talk about acceptance. You are at the head of the class, a village elder feeling like the village idiot because you have nothing of import to pass on.

But talk to me about acceptance. I will trade with you for information about my latest diagnosis. Or not. Telling you won’t really do anything but scare you.

Then someone will give you a lecture about age being just a number and 60 is the new 40 and not going gently into that good night. Rage against the dying of the light they say!

I’m not raging about shit. Not a goddamn thing! I will not! I’ve raged and ranted and raved against a zillion things. About getting older, and about war and about cruelty. I’m done.

I’ve got one bit of information though that may be of use. Those voices in your head? You know the voices. All those horrible imps and insecurities who have sought your entire life to take you down, piece by piece. The voices you wake up to who destroy your day before you start it.

Those voices are lying. Tbey are wrong. If you listen carefully there is and always has been one other voice. It’s the one voice that is telling you the truth. It is telling you that you are enough and have always been enough. Those wars you fought? You never needed to be a part of them. You can rest easily. You are enough, and if you feed the source of this one true voice, it will sooner or later drown out the others and you may even come to believe it. I hope you do, because it is the truth. I don’t know where it comes from. Maybe God but I don’t know. I listen to it though and it keeps me alive.

Alive is enough for today.

Trust.

I hope you believe this because it’s the single truth I possess. It’s all I have of value. I’ll leave you with that and then be off to ponder the most recent diagnosis.