Ruminating and Introspecting

If there is one thing I truly love about retirement, it is the gift of time — time not only to do the things I enjoy but also to pause and reflect on deeper matters: existence, mortality, meaning, and the path of my own life. For many years, I hesitated to share such reflections publicly. I would write them down, call them “blogs,” but often stopped short of posting. I felt almost embarrassed, as though publishing my thoughts was the same as standing naked before the world. Eventually, I realized the truth: in all likelihood, only one or two friends would ever read my musings. That realization was both liberating and amusing.

The truth is, I have become something like the proverbial “old man in a cave.” I do not mean to sound defeatist, nor do I intend to encourage ageism, but I must face reality: as a man in his 60s, I am unlikely to be widely followed or read. My interests no longer mirror those of the younger generations. My pace has slowed, my movements lack the flair and vigor of youth, and I am prone to nostalgia. Unless someone of my own generation shares the same reference points, my reflections may seem irrelevant to them. I am not saying it is impossible for an older person to gain followers or even go viral online. But personally, I have no desire to chase likes or views — it is not part of my bucket list.

From the beginning, I have viewed the computer and the Internet as tools for information. Historically, the Internet grew out of ARPANET, created in the late 1960s to connect universities and researchers. Much like the telegraph or the telephone before it, its earliest purpose was simply to share knowledge across distances. The modern Internet — with its reels, short videos, TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter — is an advanced outgrowth of those early bulletin boards, chatrooms, and email systems.

What has changed in recent decades is the way people use the Internet. It is no longer only about information-sharing but about life-sharing. Millions now curate their personal lives online to reinvent themselves, seeking attention, validation, or even livelihood. This thirst for visibility has become a defining trait of the digital age. Big Tech has encouraged this trend, knowing that every click, every share, every moment of engagement generates the most valuable currency of our time: data. In the age of artificial intelligence, data is power, and feeding it into algorithms makes those systems more powerful.

For this reason, I stopped being shy about posting my own blogs. My “naked” thoughts, once shared, are just specks of dust in the cosmos of information. The truth is, most online content has only a fleeting lifespan. A reel might capture attention for ten seconds before being swiped away in search of the next.

That is why I write without worrying about virality. Unlike many, I am not relying on social media as an income stream. I consider myself blessed: in retirement, I no longer need to chase financial survival through content creation. That freedom allows me to focus on writing as a form of expression, not as a means of livelihood.

Still, self-expression remains a deep human need. It is what first drew me to computers and the Internet. In my youth, I once dreamed of becoming a journalist. Life, however, demanded practicality. I pursued a career in healthcare instead — a path that transplanted me from my small barrio to the United States, giving me the security and stability I longed for. I remain grateful to both God and my adopted country for this opportunity. Yet even now, that old yearning for writing continues to whisper inside me. Retirement has given me the chance to finally answer it.

This is a familiar story among retirees. Many of us carry long-suppressed passions beneath our professional skins. A doctor might turn to sculpture. A nurse might discover painting. Someone else might start an ice cream business or open a small café. A few are fortunate to love their professions so deeply that they continue practicing them until their final days. Years ago, I even pursued a second degree in Information Technology, imagining a late-career change. While that path did not unfold as I hoped, programming still fascinates me. I just no longer have the stamina — or perhaps the years — to dedicate all my days to coding.

And yet, I think of the greats. Nikola Tesla, the genius of alternating current, lived alone in poverty, dreaming of inventions until he died of a stroke in 1943. Albert Einstein worked on his “unified field theory” until an abdominal aneurysm claimed him. Isaac Newton, even while battling kidney stones, continued refining England’s coinage system and debating Leibniz about calculus. These men pursued knowledge and invention until their final breaths. Others, like Claude Shannon — the father of information theory — were not so fortunate, succumbing to dementia late in life. But had their minds remained sharp, they surely would have kept pushing the boundaries of thought.

What united them was not a hunger for fame but an obsession with ideas. They were not posting for “likes”; they were chasing mysteries, discoveries, and truths that mattered deeply to them. That, in its own small way, is the path I wish to follow.

For as Marie Curie once advised: “Be less curious about people and more curious about ideas.”