I have circled our sun for sixty and a half years. That may not be unreasonably long, by some standards, but I had expected to be dead by now. If not dead then miserable. I did not expect to find happiness in growing older, but rather suddenly I do seem to have. After a few years of fearing each added month I have recently felt a growing sense of liberation as I begin to welcome the advancing time, and view it as a fresh opportunity rather than a spiralling toward the doom. I no longer have to build my path to adulthood, for that is done, and fast receding. I no longer have to prove anything to anyone, except, perhaps, myself. Children have been made and raised and funded and launched, apart from still and regularly needing lunched. My lady is here, but happy in herself, while still tolerating my affection. Nobody really needs all that much from me any more, except myself. I appear to have emerged into a new morning that seems to offer me the chance to largely do what I want for the first time in so long. It is very strange, this old new dawn, this quiet reborn... Although… pretence may be the secret of our sanity. Pretending we are sane, not least pretending to ourselves. Deluding ourselves as much, or perhaps much more, than we delude others. Are we not all mad inside? I think that I may be. Oh yes… I think… I think… I think… And I still play childish games inside my mind each day, whatever and wherever that mind may really be. If I were to dwell on it I would be worried. Oh, but here I am dwelling on it. Am I worried? Perhaps the fact that I am not currently worried may be the sign that I have finally attained a blissful state of mad. I have experienced some of the far from blissful states, and I have seen others in their own anguished states of mad, albeit mercifully interspersed with many times of seemingly contented madness. My father, when he truly and officially went "mad" was content enough apart from in the brief moments when he realised that he was mad. Therein may lie the secret. To be mad, yet to be unaware of our madness, and sufficiently mad to find that fun, or just not too bad. And thus, instead of sad, I’m glad.