There are days in life that tiptoe into the calendar quietly, and there are others that demand less celebration and more introspection.
A few days ago, I found myself standing at one such crossroads: My birthday, one where the number after the first digit is an irrevocable and "0".
Numbers, those cold accountants of time, suddenly gain a sort of tremulous poetry.
Life, once an unbroken symphony of improvisations, seems to shift key; the chords are deeper now, more resonant, and freighted with meaning.
And just as I mused upon the weight of passing time, I remembered with a conspiratorial smile that I share my birthday with none other than the legendary Al Pacino - the thespian titan who has stridden across our screens with the force of a Shakespearean storm.
As the years etch themselves into my reflection, I find an almost uncanny kinship with the pantheon of characters Pacino has conjured - characters of complexity, ambition, rage, and fragile yearning.
In Michael Corleone from The Godfather saga, that reluctant heir to unspeakable power, I see the slow, inexorable pull of responsibility, the tightening noose of choices made and paths forsaken.
Looking at Frank Slade, the irascible, blind Colonel of Scent of a Woman, I glimpse my own irreverence, my defiant celebrations of life, and the occasional battles with inner darkness.
Carlito Brigante, the weary but hopeful gangster of Carlito’s Way, echoes the eternal optimist in me - yearning for a clean escape, a fresh beginning, despite knowing that the past clings like a shadow at noon.
Tony Montana of Scarface, that feral, incandescent comet of ambition, reminds me of my younger self: reckless, roaring, unschooled in the gentle art of patience.
And Benjamin "Lefty" Ruggiero, the faded mobster of Donnie Brasco, whispers to me of loyalty, regret, and the bruised honour that remains long after the final act.
It is as if each character were not merely portrayed by Pacino, but planted - stealthily and with supreme artistry - into the soil of my own evolution as I try to survive.
Their dialogues have become inner monologues; their choices, cautionary tales and clandestine dreams.
