I feel like the end is near. Presumably it’s because I’m approaching 60 years of age, which in this humble poor country of South Africa, is the age of retirement, where the government gives everyone a monthly pension. Not that the money is very much or too important to me. It’s just the time when the body and mind slows down and I feel the need to do less and be more.
I used to write to earn. Those days are over as the blog site collapsed. Actually before the blog site existed, I wrote because I liked to, for fun and to learn and share. Now I can do that again since the money is out of the equation. I still like to learn, and the best way to learn is to summarise and repeat it, in speech or writing.
I am not too bothered to share with the world any more in my writing simply because I doubt the world reads my writing. So I write to leave a legacy, but who cares about my legacy? No one really. So why do I even bother to write? I do it as a way to think.
We are blessed with the gift of imagination and story telling. I was told a story about how to earn via publishing and that story turned out to be a time sensitive reality, and that time has passed, so no happy ending to that tale. So I use my imagination to create a world of my own, where it goes right as I write.
I see myself wealthy, coins going to the moon. I remember the feeling from late 2021, and early 2025 even, when coins gained value and the wallet bulged, in South African value, which is 20x less than EU value. It felt euphoric, for a few weeks. That feeling is uplifting, and I feel it now, the profit after a long wait of years.
And that’s just the start. The wealth is there and I have it. Let’s buy some icecream. More importantly at this stage I wish to relax and do less, which means more time. It’s the same time as any day, but now I can use it as I feel, not as anyone demands, because I have met all my personal demands. There is icecream, so I’m fine.
I only write out of habit. The words mean little, have no value and are empty. Only the page gets full of their empty words. The paradox of life. When I’m gone these words will be scattered to the wind, like my ashes. It will be like I or they never existed, me and my words. That’s life on earth for all of us. Some words inspire future readers, but not mine. Mine won’t be available to read because the memory banks keeping them available will shut down soon. That’s my opinion. The Hive will collapse. It’s close to collapse now. So my words will go up in smoke. Like my ashes.
There are rumors of an afterlife, for me, not my words, but that me in the afterlife is certainly not anything to do with this body and mind. That goes away at death. Whatever remains of me after that will look and be different. I don’t even know who I am.
Life was alright for me. I did some nice and helpful things. I didn’t abuse too many people. And soon I’ll be gone. The end is always near. The last few days will be empty and insignificant. I should be happy there’s no pain now. Imagine a life where the main source of joy is the fact that there is no sorrow. That seems rather flat. Flat is better than miserable. So I rejoice in the emptiness, the meaninglessness, the painlessness of life right now. It could be much worse, so I’m grateful for the lack of suffering. I don’t need much more than that. Joy is a luxury, not a necessity.
Ultimately we are not obliged to do or achieve anything. It’s fine to just be. So just being it is, one day after the next, all the same day, the same thing as the earth turns to face the sun every 24 hours. Living because... what else is there? Living just because I’m alive. Living to live. Living while waiting to die. A life of waiting, for Godot, or God only knows what comes after. If anything. There are rumors, and I feel it must be something. But I don’t know.
I read all the tales of the afterlife. Some sound absurd. Some sound like fairytales. Some make sense, but none can really explain it clearly, only allude to it. And none can be trusted for sure. So I just hang around doing time, day by day, waiting for I don’t know what. And dying means becoming less and less by the day. The physical strength becomes less, the mind and memory becomes less, all sense of self and of reality fades away bit by bit.
Yet, if I keep writing like this, I can go back and read what I used to be, as my memory fades and I forget who I even am. I can read what I wrote back a year ago or eight years ago, and remember about myself. Thus I write to keep a step ahead of dissolution of self and memory. By capturing my thoughts like this, I can return to see who I used to be, to be reminded by my former self.
So, I’ll keep writing letters to my future self like this. And maybe my future self will be able to have a laugh, enjoy the joke called life on earth, and be entertained by the game, where we play for a bit and win or lose, only to walk away when the game is over, perhaps to play another game as someone else in the future round.
image: source