Come to think of it. I may not be 80-years-old. Maybe life
begins only when one becomes fully conscious. As a thinking being. Aware of
one’s own existence. Complete with
memory. An argument could be made. That I
don’t yet meet the requirements of being alive. Sure, there’s circumstantial
evidence that I emerged from my mother’s womb. In Chicago. On the night of 9/11/35. But maybe it
wasn’t until five or six years later that I had a conscious identity. As a
unique functioning and thinking being. It’s possible, too, that I still haven’t
reached the level of being fully and certifiably born. In the form I’m ultimately meant to
be. Perhaps as nothing less than a living and conscious and thriving and loving
spirit. Gloriously and magnificently sprouting from my physical cocoon. In
other words, I’m still in the process of being born. Not yet fully alive. Therefore,
there’s no reason to start counting the years of my real and profound life. Yes, it’s a
good feeling. That I am so young. Not even yet being born. Here I
am. Still in the preliminary and preparatory stages of truly conscious life. Wow!!! What a stunning
revelation!!! --Jim Broede
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