I'm betraying my age group-- I should probably be drinking and humping stuff and yelling, right?
I drove back from Tacoma, not in the mood for talking. My dad was saying something, I think. It didn't matter, my mind had turned its focus on itself. I was thinking about age, the killer of many young men like myself. I was thinking about accomplishments. I was thinking about people. I was thinking about love, because that always seemed like the most important thing to amass before death-- that's what all the moral-worthy stories were really about when you boiled them down. I was thinking about chances, but the most stinging of all was thinking about all chances unexplored. People unexplored, people who I had only begun to explore, people who I'd want to explore through the changes of place and situation and... age, and I know that I can't anymore. I had gotten it into my head that I should start preparing for getting older, and I found myself unable to stop. You get old when you spend more of your time revisiting than visiting, instigating. You get old.
I guess I'm banking on a time soon when I can reverse this whole thought process and get younger for awhile. Age is all in your head, all in your soul, you know. And years, physical years, don't mean shit. When I'm 80 and have too much knee pain to stand up, I wont be able to say that makes me feel old-- a lot of babies can't stand up and they don't talk about age, do they?
In a week I'll be in San Diego, sitting beside my great aunt Bebob as she downs strait glasses of vodka and listening to her increasingly wild stories of our family history in Tennessee. If that wont produce a crux for these thoughts, I'm not sure what will.
I guess I'm banking on a time soon when I can reverse this whole thought process and get younger for awhile. Age is all in your head, all in your soul, you know. And years, physical years, don't mean shit. When I'm 80 and have too much knee pain to stand up, I wont be able to say that makes me feel old-- a lot of babies can't stand up and they don't talk about age, do they?
In a week I'll be in San Diego, sitting beside my great aunt Bebob as she downs strait glasses of vodka and listening to her increasingly wild stories of our family history in Tennessee. If that wont produce a crux for these thoughts, I'm not sure what will.