I was going to begin this thought by writing, “Adults don’t believe that time is rushing for me too,” but then I realized I couldn’t do that. I am an adult–and have been for more than a handful of years–so that sentence has lost its meaning. A more accurate choice may be, “People who view me as a ‘young person’ can’t comprehend that I feel I am quickly losing time too.” So, let’s go with that.
It’s the middle of summer. We are at the top of a giant hill with no level ground in sight. We are dizzied and unbalanced, but we know we must start down; there is no other choice. Once we take that first step over the side, we will gain speed and roll, out of control, full-force, no warning, to the bottom. And I am already sad with the expectation of it. So much so that I am not enjoying the view from the top of the hill and I know I won’t enjoy the descent.
After a long, cold winter of longing for warm air, I might as well be back in December for all the more I can savor what I waited forever for.
The years are piling up, my allotted lifetime used and discarded, only accounted for in retrospect.
But when I share this with someone, they don’t believe my time sensation because I’m not as old as they are. To them, I’m exaggerating, trying to sound wise.
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Semi-related observations/questions: I watched the first 30 minutes of Top Gun the other night. I’m still in my twenties, so why did Cougar look like a 12-year-old boy to me? Why does it seem irresponsible to me that people my age are becoming parents? Why do I dread losing the love of my life? Is it really all ending as quickly as it seems to be?
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