I wondered about my life. What was I doing? Where was I going? It was a puzzlement and I had no answers. I’d been places; I’d done things – but what did they amount to? I wasn’t alone, but that didn’t matter. My life seemed sustained as if by a wooden hanger. Nothing surrounding me had any relevance. Only the ticking of the clock told me that my life was passing by and yet the days, months and years added no sense of fulfillment. I searched my memory for those golden moments that are supposed to signal turning points in one’s life and found none.
I didn’t ask for much. I wasn’t hoping or looking for stardom or any special place in the sun. I knew my place as a trusted, faithful companion. One to be counted on. One to be looked upon as a true friend.
Friends come and go and yet I’ve remained constant. That alone should give me some satisfaction. But it doesn’t.
And so I look at my life and I calmly resign myself. An average life. Not unique. Not outstanding. But true to my calling. True to the life of a corduroy jacket.