You know - the ones that grind slow, but exceeding small? These days, they don't grind quite so slow...
In two weeks, I'll be 58. (I'm going to have to start giving my age in Celsius.) I still vividly remember turning 40, and feeling really, really old - now, of course, it seems ridiculously young, a slip of a lad, still wet behind the ears(or wet behind the years might be closer.)
Unless I turn out to be that guy - you know, the world's oldest man(for about 2 weeks), then I definitely have much more behind me than I do in front of me - I'll quit waffling and let a poem say what I really feel(this is from "The Circus Poems")...
Things are always collapsing. You climb the staircase of years, the steps
crumbling quietly behind you. The rain falls down in gales of laughter,
holding its sides. The moon disintegrates in a puddle of light. It all turns
to dust eventually – the flowered wallpaper – the flapping curtains – the
letters bound in tin boxes in the highest attic room – the night’s paper
wings flare on morning’s noiseless flames- collapsing, always collapsing.
Here's a link to the interview and reading I did on "The State of Things" on NC NPR last week:
Causes Alex Grant Supports
Southern Poverty Law Center