Having passed my 49th birthday with not too much fuss and entered my 50th year, I do pause and wonder about the passage of time. In the vastness of the earth's - even human - history, my life is but an iota of a speck, and I am comfortable with that. Yet, in my own infinitesimal way, I do want to do more good than harm, and I feel strongly that it is through my writing that I might manage this.
Recently I have discovered this from Edith Sitwell's 'The Poet Laments the Coming of Old Age':
I see the children running out of school;
They are taught that Goodness means a blinding hood
Or is heaped by time like the hump on an aged back,
And that Evil can be cast like an old rag
And Wisdom caught like a hare and held in the golden sack
Of the heart. ... But I am one who must bring back
Sight to the blind.