Blah blah blah. Each year it's the same thing.
Beyond the nuisance that the years behind are growing and the years before aren't, is gray hair – a billboard of my encroaching maturity. Distinguished, by the way, is a sophistic compliment.
I'm complaining, but I probably shouldn't. My agerasia wanes disproportionately slower than the calendar. Still, who wants to deal with this "like sands through the hourglass" crap?
What has getting older gotten me? Well, I have a family. That's something. The mistakes I make these days are colossal, not just little blunders. I get hurt easier, gain weight faster, and have grown moderately intolerant to loud music.
I might as well step on through the door and close it behind me.
Here's what's amazing. It's a terrible evaluation of the rest of the world, but I still fool a universe of witnesses of one thing about me while a substantively different reality is true.
Eventually someone somewhere will realize I am faking it.
Until then, I'll be living the dream.
You know the Shirley Bassey song History Repeating? Just like polynomial trends become more accurate with larger data samples, the circle of life is more apparent over time. We're not so much "evolving", just "revolving".
Still, ignorance remains bliss. I don't watch the news because I don't need it. Everyone else's misery isn't what I need. What I need is a good Simpson's rerun. What I want is a raspberry yogurt. What I get is a poke in the eye. But, the crime is that I complain.
What most people need is purpose.
Truth, you know, is available to all us mortals. Most of us scratch off a little throughout our lives. Songwriters often weave in their share and we conclude their genius. But like the elephant's tail, a dab of truth speaks little to the whole.
As I flip the next calendar's page, I wonder what I can sing to share my own scratch. A looming regret is my many unwritten novels, songs and smiles. Precariously multiplicious, the very desire is the terminal wound to others.
Anyway, tomorrow's my birthday.