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So, it begins… Writings by Delta.

I’ve been a fan of writing and reading for as long as I can remember. Through my childhood and school, being lost in a good book, writing, even taking a shot at creating an alphabet of foreign symbols for writing. My mother is an avid reader, perhaps some genetic similarity was passed down, or my thirst for creativity to escape from boredom and complacency takes over the jargon of webs I call my mind. When I decided to test the waters on freelance writing, I think many times I hesitated which ultimately caused me to stop this desire of mine from ever being cultivated. I started to write a book, feeling safer in the knowledge of editing by publishers as to transition my thoughts into a real, tangible, and handheld masterpiece where my editing flaws, lack of words or proper sentence structure could be hidden, erased and perfected. It is still saved on the hard drive of my laptop with only three chapters completed.
I’m sitting down and typing, or rather, creating this piece of writing with a sense of duty and urgency on the eve of my thirty-fifth birthday. I just hung up from a call with my brother who happens from some genetic mishap or miracle, to be my twin. We are discussing schoolwork, inspection for my nephew’s car amongst other irrelevant topics passing the time as he is temporary locked out of his house waiting for his wife to come home. Side note: my mother who lives down the road came down and unlocked his house, miracles happen every day. Back to my complex thought process and developing story. I am talking to my brother, perusing Verizon’s phone plans and wondering why I pay a car payment a month for their services, and a sense of lost time starts to circle in my head. I am conversing with my brother whom he and I will turn thirty-five tomorrow. I am not sure if accomplishments are expected at certain ages or if in them, is where you find one’s worth. However, besides a debatable topic on self-worth I felt the need to accomplish something before I turned thirty-five. This is where the commencement of writing is woven into this story. The dire need to at least try to write a freelance article before I turn thirty-five. That is less than six hours away now. I have tried before, and I did not execute said writing. I had asked my nephew to choose a topic for me and I would write about it. My nephew, who lives with me, chose a topic for me that others would write about without hesitation. I rolled around his suggestion in my mind, “write about a broken family finding their missing piece(s) that slowly healed them.” After much reflection, I realized I couldn’t write about this suggestion—yet. This was too close to home for me as I had taken my nephew out of a not-so-good situation and I realized as my love for this young man has grown more of that which reflects the love of one’s child, his pain and struggles are still too close to my heart to openly write about. Thus, here we are with a conundrum of sorts to solve. I have a task to do within six hours and my given suggestion is not one that I can [at this point] bring to fruition. So we are at a stalemate, and my mind is running in circles wondering what I can write about to accomplish said task before the clock strikes midnight.
And that is when inspiration struck. The significance of thirty-five years on this Earth and the next thirty-five years if Lord willing, come to pass. It is November, the season is changing, and it seems appropriate as I have a plethora of feelings rather than words, deep inside my mind and heart about turning this particular age. A quick Google search and I learned that middle age is considered forty to sixty years old. Although I don’t quite understand that, as I am speculating this indicates the person will live between eighty years old to a century, perhaps measured by a biological time clock, I suppose this is true. But what age is considered middle age when you think about relevance and substance? My grandfather worked until about eighty if my memory serves, and then he had to stop working. He lost momentum, the joy and satisfaction of being a relevant member of society. I suppose those kinds of thoughts remain rent-free in my mind. So, thirty-five would be considered a more accurate term for middle aged. The age where I have thirty-five more years to live, create, make a difference, accomplish and breathe independence before fizzling out. I’ve halfway there before people start to forget my name, what I was good at, the memories, my mark in this world. Before I become obsolete. Before in my career, they will seek someone younger, sharper and with broadened spectrums to take my place.
Although this is a lot to ingest on the eve of my birthday, it is liberating to know that each year counts. I am not saying that a person’s relevance and ability to make a difference or be forgotten are reached at the age of seventy, but I feel it is an accurate guesstimate of when these things might start taking effect. These types of thoughts can, I suppose, in one form or another, cause a depression or regret of years lost that you did not make the most of or any kind of emotion can be felt when thinking about how our days on this Earth are numbered. It is empowering to know that so forth on in your life, you know that each day counts, that there is no more waiting. That today is the day, the week, the month, the year to do it. To explore what you’re passionate about, to start over and laugh at the mistakes you made knowing you’re not that person anymore. To be happy that life has meaning now because you are in the second part of your relevant years, your years to find out what God has blessed you to do, and how to stay relevant years after that seventy mark by touching the lives of people or creating a legacy for yourself in your works and choices. It is a time where you no longer feel the need to be what the world wants you to be but what you want to be, to know that your tribe of people are the only persons that matters, and that is letting go of everything you’ve have been, to proudly, confidently, and purposefully be you, yourself. This may be the next season in your life where you find out who you are so you can learn how to be comfortable with yourself, spending the rest of your days with purpose, meaning and resting assured you’re no longer wasting time on this one earthly life.
I was not able to write about the chosen topic for me. One day I will be able to, because for me, processing hurt, disappointment, fear, the unknown and finding out what truly makes me happy and whole, is how I will be spending the rest of my days. And seeking these virtues and intentions will help me heal enough to tell other parts of my story that are kept hidden from the world and are only recorded in my heart, to speak about things that have hurt me or those I love most. I believe that writing can hold a testimonial power where others feel they are not alone in their thoughts, feelings, and opinions. And it is an honor to begin connecting with you all through my writing.
All my best,

Delta Trevor

11/12/2024