The Irish in me.

From the moment you are spit out of your mother’s hole you are on the long march to the grave. It takes decades though to recognize that fact and Mao isn’t there to guide you along. There is no cause you have taken up on this journey and it is a path taken by many before you. It is only as you get closer to the end of your steady, plodding, step after step road that you begin to take note of how long it has taken you to get to the end but even then you are amazed because you can’t recount all the moments that led you here as they raced by you so quickly that you didn’t savor each moment. It is a curse and a blessing because any wisdom you may have accumulated is offset by the myriad of ways you find parts of yourself falling off by the wayside. It’s not the one big thing, rather it’s the accumulation of each small thing, each bruise, each scrape, each bump, each ache that builds up and takes its toll on you. You wonder at times how you might be able to take even one more step but still you keep going, somehow pushed forward inevitably propelled by what you cannot know. How is it that you have arrived here? How can you find yourself at a destination you couldn’t begin to imagine and wouldn’t have believed you were pointed towards. Where did it all go?