I am what I am, but what am I?

It’s weird, I’m 52 but I don’t feel like a real grown-up. I see folks from my cohort, or younger, with their houses and mortgages, children and multiple cars, they’re serious people, they mean business. And here am I with my dreams of a magnificent future, of spaceships, nanotech, agi, the end of aging, and humankind united at last. A future of which I’m strongly optimistic is possible in principle, but uncertain when it’ll arrive.

There’s a guitar and a bass on my wall, next to a stack of keyboards and an actual vocal booth in what used to be my bedroom. There are two handful of books with my name on it on my shelf. What am I? Who am I? Where do I belong? Where am I going, or am I in it just for the path, not for the destination? Is it right, is it wrong; should I be more like the other folks from my cohort? I’m asking myself that question often, but I have no answers. Maybe there are no easy answers.

It’s like it is. I can only do what I must to, cannot do anything else, cannot pretend to be somebody else. So I’ll continue walking along this path whether it’ll lead to my timely demise or to the red planet.

Watch me 👽

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