When I was in my twenties, I thought my teenage years were drugs. Each iteration sees its progenitors as hallucinogens.
Back then, I effectuated, consummated, carried off more and more, immortal.
Immortality is for packhorses. “It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth.”
I don’t miss an endless life so much as the spacious sense of a day’s time.
The Lord is young: a day is as a thousand years. The Lord is old: a thousand years is as a day. (2 Peter 3:8, SRV)
“For the elect’s sake those days shall be shortened.” Who would stay when night and day harry each other so?
Shortened or not, my latter days are short.
For the young, the rising & setting suns are worlds apart.
I remember the trees, creaking. Ash. I lay on beds of moss summers for what felt more like forever than ever since.
Clouds binding and decoupling like bath bubbles. The field warm like a woman.
Youth pines, even through the knots of age. [Dasgupta in NY Times Mag: http://is.gd/vQ76rI ]
Nascent senescence: my old age, anyway, is young.
Such divergent old ages! Wrinkles, creaking knees, and death tend to herd the arrows, but otherwise, age honors young trajectories.
There’s no name for one’s childhood self. No tombstone, either, that would call for it.
Old age flowers the mausoleums of youth.
“Trill” are my Twitters. Tweet suites from @slowreads.