Desperate to write something valuable and profound before I kick the bucket, the pressure it places on my time and the urgency to come up with something is gnawing away at me constantly. I have SO much to say, but ultimately it all feels banal compared to what others are saying.
My story, as it flows out of me, is vague and confused, and after reanimating the emotions involved, leaves me with a distinct lack of purpose. These gems of wisdom are not so shiny. They're more tarnished thoughts from an era of naivety and ignorance.
I feel like I've wasted my time here on this planet. The precious moments drifting away in the torrent sea of emotional grief topped up with alcohol and tears. If only I'd grasped the truth earlier, perhaps when I WAS a scientist, I could have pursued a greater purpose, a more enthusiastic goal. Fulfilment perhaps? But when I was a scientist, all I could see was emotional love, emotional loss and a struggle to craft some unattainable persona of cool. Rock God. Gypsy Lover. Dipsomaniac's Kiss. Salvation in adulation or even just the ability to inspire lust in others.
I've churned effort into many pursuits, all extracurricular, all to the detriment of the humdrum basics of just living. Domestic neglect. Now I turn my focus onto the truth. The Science. The betterment of myself. The peace that emotional turmoil could not abate. Now I feel cheated for 40-odd years of wasted effort. On things that didn't matter. However, I should step back a bit, and see that those 40-odd years were "The Journey" to this point. Much of my making, no matter how much I begrudge it, was set with every step through every year. I cannot take back the time. I cannot soothe the pains.
Perhaps my testament, my witness, my experience IS what needs to be said - if only to explain who I was, to those left, when I'm gone?