It may be that I am simply becoming even more of a grumpy old man, but the older I get, the more I feel that onset of what can only be called “the warrior mentality”. That is to say, I am increasingly convinced that there is no forward motion without friction, you can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs, that there is a battle to be fought and that means there will be casualties, but that not fighting is not an option because all that it takes for evil to triumph is for enough good men to do nothing.
The warrior role does not come naturally to me. By nature I am a cave-man. I am a monk. I am a scholar, a bookworm, a contemplative, an introvert. I am a peaceful soul who avoids conflict, and because I invariably see both sides of the argument, I am usually a peacemaker when conflict breaks out.
Perhaps I am becoming more of a warrior because I see the sand sifting through the hourglass. I realize how much time I have wasted, and how little I have left.
If it is so that I am becoming more of a warrior, then I hope at least to be a sweet soldier. I want to be a Don Quixote–a silly fool of a knight, who rides out to battle because he has been hit with a sad sort of illness; a fool who rides out to battle because he must, not because he wants to.
Or let me be a Cyrano de Bergerac–a valiant fool with a rubber nose who battles invisible foes. Let me swash my buckle and toss my cape over one shoulder. Let me joust while eating a pastry and composing a poem. Let me wield my sword seriously, but never wield my ego seriously. Let me first see the Beauty, Truth and Love clearly, and fight for them as I can, and then retire again to my books, my study and my silence.