life has a way of complicating itself, as though—like a woman—it doesn’t want to be taken for granted or pigeonholed, understood or assumed about.
Every year I have a few posts where I say, “I’m getting too old for this.” Sometimes now I feel as though I need to say “I’m finally getting old enough for this,” but quite often within a few moments I am also ready to say “or I am already far too old for this.”
It’s impossible to say, really. But life, nonetheless—and unsurprisingly—remains.
I remember so many things. I’ve forgotten so many things. So has everyone, I know. All those things… amongst everyone… can you imagine?
I’m tired as hell. It will only get more and more this way until sometime next spring.