In the last two weeks I’ve been writing an autobiography. I don’t claim that my life is any more interesting than anyone else’s, or anything even remotely similar. I simply have a very unique perspective on life and believe that there are people in this would that could benefit from it.
I can’t really elaborate much beyond that, as it would give away the context of the book and the reasons that I’m writing it. I will say that I’m afflicted with a particular condition that does make for interesting reading. 🙂
I’ve been lost in a sea of yesterdays, sifting carefully through my past and trying to find those trivial morsels and nuggets of truth that will make for a good book. I’ve found that I’ve lived a lot of life in my intervening twenty-six years, and that I have many more ahead of me. As I Read back through the rough draft that I’ve written, Shakespeare’s “Seven Ages of Man” monologue seems even more poignant.
I feel that after each successive age of life, the old me has somehow died and only my essence has carried on to now. I suppose that’s the closest equivalent to a soul that I will ever believe in. I often wonder how many stages I’ve leaped past in order to get where I am today. I’ve been told many times that I’ve an ancient soul, and while I sometimes agree, I always seem to be stumbling and struggling on.
PS – Here’s a decent read on the monologue I mentioned above