Wow. 25 years old. A quarter century on this earth. I can’t believe it.
I can, actually. I mean, I’m not that old. I’m not reaching a age like 50, 60, 70, 80 or 90 that’s something to cheer about. But this is the age I always told myself I’d would be an adult. It was more meaningful than 18, which was just a legal designation. I wanted to be out of school, with a job, etc.
I’m not one to think much of ages and what it means for a person. But today I feel like I have more heft behind myself. I have a quarter century of living under my belt.
In the past 25 years I have done some remarkable things: learned how to walk, to talk, read, write, how to express feelings. Graduated from high school, college and started a career in journalism.
Now what will I do for the next 25 years? Where will I be when I am 50? How can I possibly recreate those accomplishments all humans make in the first years of life? What I want to achieve is not totally clear, at all. The path, also, is not as laid out as it was for me for the first 25 years. But there’s the call.
I’ve reached the age that for most men in history was maturity, then others mid-life. Now, it’s just a quarter century. And onto the next quarter century, and who know, three more after that.