Doing the work of life is hard.   I am not a young man anymore, biologically speaking.   My thought patterns tonight--it's a jumble in here.   I know we are here to work and to help and to be with each other.  There is nothing so challenging and nourishing to the brain and psyche as to continually ply that sea of ambiguity and nuance that is human interaction.    This is the particular strength of our human intelligence.   We are not expressing our fullest talents and experiencing true growth unless we are daily immersed in our particular current of humanity, our mix of family, friends, and strangers.  

We must also do our work.  We must find our expression, connect and build, improve what we find.
Produce more than consume.   Oh the clear sadness of mere consumerism at this juncture in mid-life.
I must produce words at this moment because my gut is twisted and blocked.  I must produce something with my brain, because I have a strong hunch it is part of the cure for physical discomforts.   I can feel this work of production easing my pain, literally prompting gurgling from my guts, lessening pressure.   I confirms what I'm afraid to confront--that I am not really producing and doing the right work in my life at this moment.

I have lately been thinking I should have followed a path more centered on the act of writing.   It was a natural and enjoyable part of my life as I grew up.   I somehow have landed here in the upper echelon of the computer animation industry, but standing here at 50 I feel I have not done the work to truly have earned the spot as a pure artist.   Now I am required to to the work of artisitc leadership, yet I have so much to learn from my cohorts that I should rightfully start over again.  Then there is the shame of not earning a good living for my family, and losing our place, and failing to secure a good and stable upbringing for my child.   It is everyman's dilemma.