One of the insidious maladies that plagues middle age, is a fading memory. Not a serious medical condition, but a blurring of what was, with what might have been, with what really is. For some people, the older they get the better they think they used to be. For me, the older I get the more I think I could have been. Sadly in the process of growing up, in addition to learning who I am, I've learned a lot about who I am not. I'm not the brilliant individual my mother bragged about, but simply just who I am.

I am a humble man, who is finally coming to the point where I'm satisfied to live my whole life in obscurity. I get up, do my job, and I love my family, my community, my friends, and I know that God loves me. With that, I am satisfied. Sure I want to be better than I am. Despite the occasional vituperative utterances, I quietly live in the world I've created out of the broken spirits and dashed hopes. I'm older now, understanding the meaning of loyalty through betrayal, understanding honesty by being cheated, and understanding integrity through deception. Yet, I move on, not dwelling too long in a past that would otherwise bog me down.

There's still room for great changes in my life, but in middle age those dreams are tempered with the knowledge that my strength and weakness are as much a part of reaching my goals as is my enthusiasm.

(thanks to John Bingham - for the inspiration, apologies if I've plagiarized his writing)