I'm having a bit of trouble coping with the fact that I'm aging. I know that, objectively, it occurs, or is occurring, all the time, and that it doesn't stop. It's a constant stream. But it doesn't feel that way.
It feels like it happens in chunks, hunks really, or increments that aren't linear, that don't match my subjective insistence on whomever it is that I'm frolicking around with inside, and that often occur in moments of grotesque self-analysis and realistic perception of my, ya know, BODY. Yeah, that fallible carnal reality of withering decay! I mean, take care of it and it will be better, no doubt, and I'm trying with all my might to do so, but still. Still, gasp, isn't it sort of impossible, "in the end" that we fully take care of our bodies? Not to provide some excuse to rush the process. But query with me, ladies and gents, the delicate fact that once we know what kind of life we've led (assuming, and bit of a large assumption, that we're sort of honest about these things and/or update our beliefs on some regular basis that isn't linked to a grand self-deluding narrative), we're too old to change that life, and so are stuck with an emotional reality that isn't zen-buddhist in nature, but more, oh, how do you say it, along the road to death.
Does the possibility for one's happiness increase as one ages? Is time spent happy more dense, more pleasurable, more rewarding, somehow, so that we can peel back the grimy layers that have become our less-than-pliable skin, and sort of relish in the fact that our experience has allowed us some tidbit, some morsel, of satiation, knowing that?
I want to tell you there's a truth buried in the above, so basic and beautiful and light-hearted that it will make you float with glee. I want to tell you a lot of things, actually. I want.
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