Getting old is a strange, strange feeling. No matter what successes or joys you may have achieved it’s always the failures and pains that come back to you the clearest.
I recently had a birthday and, while I did enjoy spending the time with my family, I’ve been slowly slipping into a melancholy malaise. Not about getting old per se, but about my history, about the paths I have taken in life and all the paths not taken. I don’t just mean regret, I’ve got plenty of those already, I’m talking more about feeling a sense of loss over what might have been, could have been, perhaps even should have been, but are instead, now, forever lost.
I can’t, honestly, call those feelings regret because, for better or worse, I like the place I’m in in my life and the prospects I have spread out for the future. But I can’t help feeling somewhat less than what I was. When a life path is closed off it’s like a piece of you has died; something uniquely you vanishes forever like a raindrop into the ocean and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it but morn it’s loss.
I don’t have a direction to go with this or a pithy comment that turns this delightful cornucopia of emotions on its ear. I just have the emotions…
…And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it