It is not long since my twentyfirst birthday anniversary, couldn’t have been longer than a month, and yet I feel, for all intents and purposes, ... old. I know full well I have yet to see the world and there is bound to be someone out there who will disprove all my notions of having seen humanity at both its best and its worst, but nevertheless I cannot bring myself to aknowledge that life has anything more left to offer.
So far in life I have experienced everything from putting all of myself into a project and having it flop all the way to not having put any effort whatsoever and having a raging success. I have gotten jobs far beyond my skill level and exceled, and I have had jobs far below my skill level and fail miserably.
I have had raging blind love, I have had love denied, at this young an age I even managed living a stable love naught can shake to rubble and yes, I have even had love torn from me at such a pace it felt like being ripped to shreds and fed through a cow.
At twelve I considered mysteries of mind and matter that men of fourty never think of, at barely twenty I had been working my career for a decade and now I am bound to a girl I dearly love but cannot stand, whom I cannot live without, but can sometimes not bear to look at. A girl who would walk through fire for me and I for her, the girl who, in all likelihood, will remain at my side for ever. I am starting work on projects of such large a scale men at thirty dare not think of and I am miserable beyond comprehension of men at sixty.
I blunder through life with relentless ease. So much passion I put into everything I touch, so much care and wonder into every thought, so much of myself into every thing I create that all my thoughts, my loves, my babies take a little bit of myself, take a little out of my life and put another nail in my coffin.
If I ever live to see my twentyseventh my life will have been by far too long, I will have been spent beyond belief of ancient men and women. So much passion I put into everything nothing is able to give enough back to sustain me, nothing I ever touch will be enough to make me happy and yet I will be enough to turn every single thing into gold. Deeply vain of me, I know, but so it is, I cannot help it.
You see, I am only twentyone and passion is nearly leaving my breath, I have hardly any more to spend and it is tiring. It makes life feel empty and leaves one wanting.
But there is one thing life does have left to offer, that one single thing I have yet to experience and seems such strong an event it can make or break a man - the death of a lover. And even that feels all too near at times, you poor lover thing, I know I must make you suffer tremendously, even this very letter will most probably make you cry, but you must know dear person, you must know how terribly deep my suffer, how terribly dark my soul and how terribly incapable of making you better I am.
I will spend you my dear, I know it even though you protest, you say I can help, you beg it of me, you go as far as expecting it sometimes. But I am a lordly fool, I have naught to offer but hugs and suffering, you will grow old with me all too soon ... it is a faith I would not wish upon my enemies, the effort of knowing me deeply, and here you are, knowing me deeply and suffering nearly as deeply as myself. I have only so much passion left to spare dear friend, only so much love more to give and what when I die? When my fire is truly extinguished, what then will fill your life, what then will keep you going for we both know you have no passion of your own. You are bound to me, bound to me in pain and suffering and no matter how many rainbows I try and paint over them, one day you will see, truly see, through the mirage that is your Swizec.
I am sorry.
I write articles with real insight into the career and skills of a modern software engineer. "Raw and honest from the heart!" as one reader described them. Fueled by lessons learned over 20 years of building production code for side-projects, small businesses, and hyper growth startups. Both successful and not.
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