The month of March is symbolic of a new start, fresh
beginning and hope for the spring and summer.
The year starts here. But for the
first time in my life I am facing the spring equinox with some
trepidation. Normally I would be full of
hope and excitement for the new year but this time round the mood is somewhat somber. There comes a time when one starts to rationalize the changing
seasons as the stepping stones of ones own mortality; we start to regret the
passing of time rather than enjoying embracing the excitement of the changing
seasons.
The question's nagging away, how many more summers will I get? This fleeting morbidity will fade with the dry
cleaning bill for my cricket whites, but its presence today is bleak reminder of
a life well into the final half. The mood is somewhat dampened by pension statements that confirm the undeniable truth; to keep on living (spending) at the pace we have become accustomed, will mean that I am likely to yoked to the plough until the very end.
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