Was having a conversation with a friend the other day. You know, the usual "what-is-the-meaning-of-my-life" kind of conversation. I don't know why, but we always manage to squeeze this topic into any innocuous chit-chat. For what else can we talk about? The past is passed and gone, nothing we can do about it. Except that perhaps with each telling, the embellishments to our story grows. What was a 6-inch lizard becomes a 6-foot long komodo dragon. Or something like that.
I like to ponder on life. And thinking gives me a high. But somewhere in that process of thinking and pondering, I lost touch with who I am. Or rather, I lost me. So my friend is right. I did write myself into the role of the tragic heroine in the story of my life.
I admit my mistakes. I take what learning I can get from them, and I try not to make those same mistakes again. It's a tough call. Coming face to face with myself. Knowing I am not perfect, and never will be. But knowing that should not stop me from living. I always write like this wise old person, as if I have lived a long long life and seen many many things.
Who am I kidding? I have hardly even started living. God made us unique. Our paths in life are unique. And obviously, only I can walk the path that I choose. So my friend is right again. My life is my own, and I have got to take responsibility for it.
So much for wisdom.
And thinkers of the world unite! For life would be so much simpler without our ruminations.