
Weather
Student
- Oct 18, 2020
- 152
Oddly, one thing that I've apparently gotten from my time here -- writing my thoughts rather than just letting them pass and settle -- is how foundational poetry has been to the way I think. It turns out, lines from poems run through my mind all the time...
It's from a Thomas McGrath poem. But I complain and worry about getting older all the time. I hate aging. And while I understand the physical disappointments, it's really the idea of the abandoned possible that kills me. There just aren't the opportunities to be the person you wanted to be anymore. It's too late. Everything is what it is. Nothing can be fixed, little can be changed. I hate being older and seeing all the shut doors behind me that I'll never open, while all the doors ahead of me are predictable, banal, one-by-one in a straight line.
I don't know if any of the other old folks (you know, 35+) feel this way... but it just... aches. And yet, here we are. Can there be anything to hope for anymore?
Now the long freight of autumn goes smoking out of the land.
My possibles are all packed up, but still I do not leave.
It's from a Thomas McGrath poem. But I complain and worry about getting older all the time. I hate aging. And while I understand the physical disappointments, it's really the idea of the abandoned possible that kills me. There just aren't the opportunities to be the person you wanted to be anymore. It's too late. Everything is what it is. Nothing can be fixed, little can be changed. I hate being older and seeing all the shut doors behind me that I'll never open, while all the doors ahead of me are predictable, banal, one-by-one in a straight line.
I don't know if any of the other old folks (you know, 35+) feel this way... but it just... aches. And yet, here we are. Can there be anything to hope for anymore?