Seneca,

I can remember well the feeling of being immortal in my teenage years.  Of course, we “knew” we could and would die, but we didn’t feel like it.  Then, a few years out from my thirties, I began to feel … uncomfortable.

At 28, I hadn’t done the things that younger-me had assumed I would.  I hadn’t made the progress, I hadn’t built the life I expected.  The endless-time of youth was passing, and I was starting to glimpse a deadline, if you will.

Lately, I’ve come to accept, and maybe even started to appreciate entropy as it relates to myself… but less so as it does to others.  My perspective has changed even since I started studying philosophy.

Memento mori is starting to mean something different that it used to for me.  I’m not sure that it’s sweeter, as you say.  But it’s definitely a different vintage… but maybe we’re just more able to appreciated the bitter bite.

Farewell.

Part of Michel Daw’s Reading Plan of Seneca’s Letters.