At the age of 30:

Alexander the Great had already been ruler of Macedonia for ten years; Elizabeth I had been queen for five years, Elizabeth II for four; Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart has passed his peak of success and was five years from death; John Keats had already been dead four years, his epitaph: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." Audie Murphy had won the Congressional Medal of Honor nine years before, at the age of 21. And I am spending my third year teaching literature to a captive audience that is not just indifferent to the subject matter, but loathes and fears it.

It has been well-noted, even by those whose indelible mark has been left on this human race, that we may be denied the opportunity to accomplish that great and noble task, instead left to accomplish small tasks as if they were great and noble (Helen Keller), that we can do no great things, only little things with great love (Mother Teresa). And truly it seems that any profound discoveries on my part were simply the scripted acts of my own personal coming of age story, a story unknown to me at the time of performance, yet performed by all on the invisible stage solely for the amusement of those who've come before, those who tend their own bitter disappointment by watching the same disillusionment consume the lives of others.

There are millions of us, born into this world at different times, with only a few asked to give back at a level where their contribution cannot help but bring notice. To whom much is given, much is expected, and relative to millions of starving, unfortunate souls I have been given much indeed. Yet to an undeniably large number, I am but a delusion away from mundane, and therefore should happily carry on with my small tasks without a second thought. Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life attempts to convince those of like mind how no man is a failure who has friends. How many of us can claim to have as many friends George Bailey, real friends who would throw their money on the table in a crisis?

And so here I sit. Framed certificates on the wall remind me of accomplishments someone once thought worth acknowledging with a bit of time and parchment, framed photographs capture groups accomplishing something briefly before the members went their separate ways. Barring unforeseen unfortunate circumstances, modern medicine will give me another 30 years to accomplish what I could not to this point, even if that ends up being simply to come up with a few more real friends. And if I should be so lucky to stumble upon my contribution to posterity in the meantime, then I should rest in satisfaction that maybe someday, 36 years after I have passed on, a special group of people throughout the world will raise their glasses in simple affection and appreciation every year on my birthday and make a toast, as is done to this day for Professor J.R.R. Tolkien, creator of The Lord of the Rings.