where the writers are

Time never mattered. Days passed by. The months and years a viscous flow constructing neatly assigned memories to be opened on a familiar scent, a snatched glance, or the taste of summer rain.
Head stuck at thirty-five, I found it easy to meander into middle age. I suppose I was mildly shocked by the offer of a bus pass and the unsolicited mail that accurately signalled my abrupt arrival at a milestone measured in years and mischievously alluded that around the next corner and over the next hill it was likely my journey would end.
Illness features; five long years of unresolved agony for loved ones, and while the turmoil raged around me I managed to delve deep into my store of memories, sifting and sorting, rediscovering the sounds and the smells, the places and the people who might otherwise have stayed forgotten.
Age grants perspective; it doesn’t necessarily bring wisdom. It doesn’t do to dwell too much across the myriad pathways that arrive at today; none of those decisions can be changed… but tomorrow, that’s an all together different story.