I am going to turn 68 this summer.
I am an old man, who looks with occasional bitterness and regret over the past.
I have aches and pains that make getting about more difficult than I remember.
My eyesight is nothing like it used to be.
My hair is falling out.
I have memory lapses.
And I sometimes fixate on what might have been — had I made different decisions at various turning points in my life.
I try not to succumb to sentimentality over the faded splendor of the sort of life I had while growing up — before life in late adulthood passed me by, and I became disappointed in myself — that I did not turn out to be good enough to make a better go of it, despite ample opportunities, and failing to pick myself up when I had a final bad break and my life suddenly collapsed.
Sometimes I despair, when I think this way.
Everyday that passes bring more news of the ascendancy of global fascism and I have difficulty accepting that the bad guys often seem to win.
If I am to survive, I must find a way to get out this hole — despite being poor, in ill-health, and old.
All I need is a sliver of daylight… and I will slither out of the American darkness, and never return.
But who builds a new life when pushing 70?
The prospect of it is daunting; but I must do this, or waste away the rest of my life in a place where I no longer belong, a place that has so warped my personality that I no longer recognize who I have become.
And so, I await the news, and gear up for the last bold gamble of my life.
It is not one I can afford to lose.