The first fifty years were the hardest, and the three after
were the worst, so if that makes a paradox, I don't care.
It improves the story, and some days, that can be enough.
The Wisdom That Comes With Age is mostly a drying up
of the most sensitive "I-could-give-a-fuck" glands. We don't
care about things that we were once certain would destroy
us. Been there, skin finally healed over that. Aging takes
concentration and grace in equal measures. Harder than
it looks; we've learned to comb through all our dreams
and somehow, be able to let some go, for one reason
or another-- we waited too long, we didn't make a plan,
we finally got what we wanted and then we didn't want
it-- you learn to separate one dream from what's left.
Or this is when you learn of a dream you never knew
you had, or even, so what if I'm old? I'm going to sky-
jump-roller blade-belly dance-take up the martial arts
(there are, I've learned, terrible things the old can do
with just a cane, for instance). That is, you learn to see
things for the multi-facet wonders they are. And moving
slow, you catch more of the scenery with eyes hungry
for life; hunger growing, the closer to the end you get.