I am not my history.
The next day it all went wrong, so very wrong
The young redhead handed him a forgotten file now found.
Which the old man opened and saw yellowed newspaper columns from when he was thirty years younger.
And I quote. It all seems to have so little to do with me, for I am not my history. There’s something internal that defines me. Something constant.
The world evolves and the body ages. If you believe anything at all, believe this, forty is not old.
And I know for a fact you can get to at least forty-two without changing who you are.
You have only to believe in yourself and follow the advice of the prophet Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson:
When you have chosen your part, abide by it, and do not try to reconcile yourself with the world….
Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a decorous age.
The old man laughed silently. He had believed all that transcendental crap. Laughed at himself.
He knew for a fact you could get to seventy without changing who you are.
Which turned out to be strange and extravagant.