The Gods Have Spoken, and They’re Not Retweeting You

Look, man. Take a breath. Use some common sense. Build a little structure into your day. Cultivate a modicum of discipline. Be decent. Be helpful. That much should be obvious.

But here’s what you need to quit: this slow-burning fantasy that you’re some kind of star, some sage of the suburbs, a public intellectual on the cusp of going viral. You’ve spent years constructing a grandiose mental biography—narrating your life as if you’re a misunderstood genius waiting to be discovered at Whole Foods.

But you’re almost 64. And the gods—let’s be honest—have rendered their verdict. You’re not a prophet. You’re not a disruptor. You’re not the secret third Hemsworth brother who reads Proust and deadlifts.

You’re just a man. A lucky one. Still breathing, still moving, still able to eat toast without choking.

You’re withering. You’re going to die. And the more you try to sugarcoat that fact with heroic self-mythologizing, the more ridiculous you sound.

Learn the art of resignation. Stop treating acceptance like it’s some cheap concession. It’s not weakness. It’s freedom.

Yes, life’s a battle. You fight your own laziness, your distractions, your unearned vanity. But some things you don’t get to conquer:

You won’t live forever.
You won’t be famous.
You won’t change the world with your podcast or your perfectly structured Substack post.

And that’s okay.

Be humble. Find peace in the unremarkable. Go pet your dog. Send a kind text. Make eggs. Thank the sky that you’re still here. Not trending. Not being retweeted. Not transcendent. But here.