I’m forty-three years old. It’s not my birthday or anything; that’s in December. Today is just one of those days when you wind up feeling your age in a way you can’t avoid.
Most of my mid-life angst is creative-based. I have too many fucking things that i need to write and not enough time to write them in. When i was younger, the angst was also largely creatively fueled, but the problem them was having the time but not the focus. Now i’ve got the focus but not enough hours in the day to bring the focus into focus, as it were. I expect that if i ever found the time alongside the focus, i’d probably lose the energy, or my typing fingers would spontaneously fall off, or something. Life is like some kind of quantum jigsaw puzzle whose pieces disappear at random, then reappear just long enough for you to figure out exactly where they need to go before they disappear again.
Here’s what i think this particular bit of thoughtful depression comes down to. When you’re younger, you can pretty easily make yourself believe that given enough time, you can accomplish anything. As you get older, you get more and more acutely aware of the fact that you’re not ever going to have enough time.
In the end, you feel the pressure that tells you it’s time to let go of old things whether you want to or not, and this pressure makes us crazy. Or at least crazier. Every new day brings with it the rational voice that says it’s time to face up to the realities of where you are and what you can do, and to stop worrying about the shit you can’t affect anymore. Every day brings the overwhelming desire to just kind of turn away from another one of your dreams.
And you know what? Fuck rationality. Hang onto the dreams. Live forever. I’m not entirely sure how to make that last one happen, but i’m going to give it some thought.