Ready, Set, Exist

Summoned from the void, your awareness comes online. You seem to be in a public place, activity bustling around you. Yes, you are aware, but the software program of “I”—the one that reminds you I am so-and-so, and this is my story—hasn’t yet booted up. Context and location still to be determined.

Of course none of this comes as a thought. It’s only raw awareness, and a subtle sense that something must be done.

Suddenly the warm thud of a man-sized hand lands firmly on your shoulder, jolting you to your feet. “You’re up,” a voice says, calling you into action.

Out on the field, players are running, sliding, exerting themselves toward a goal you haven’t yet identified. The thrum of feet on grass, the smell of sweat in the air. “John,” you think. “My name is John.”

It’s all starting to come back. But where am I? What game is this? Which team am I on?

Your blue-eyed teammate runs up. A friend. You can’t recall his name, but the sense is clear—you’ve known him for lifetimes. “Hey Johnny, you doing all right?”

“Yes,” you answer. And the words root deeper than you expect. I am. And for a moment, that’s enough.

Then clarity sharpens. This is a soccer game, and your job is to help the blue shirts get that squishy round thing into the big rectangle with a net. Purpose returns, narrowing your focus. Your eyes catch the blue jerseys around you, the ball glinting in the churn of motion. It’s all about the ball. It’s all about the goal.

Muscle memory carries you up the field into open space. This feels right, what you should be doing. The ball is passed to you with urgency, the passer’s eyes burning with expectation. This is your moment.

You catch the ball at your feet and dribble forward. And in this heartbeat, everything aligns—you know who you are, why you are here, and what you are meant to do.

Then you glance up. The stands are full. Some faces glow with love and support, lifting you forward. Others glare with unearned hatred, rooting for your stumble. For a moment your foot slips, the ball nearly escaping your control. But you steady yourself, because there’s no choice but forward.

The enemy closes in. Red jerseys flooding your edges, the clock running thin.

And then you hear it. That dreadful sound, sharp and final, piercing into your soul. The referee’s whistle. Game over.

You feel your body almost floating back to the bench from which you came. The wood is worn smooth, like countless players before you have rested here. Your eyes lift to the scoreboard. 4–0. Halftime.

Welcome to your forties.