Every now and then it's good to be both shocked and transfixed by the sudden awareness of one's own mortality, as well as at the relentless and continuous abridgment (not for the better) of one's remaining quantity of time.
Oddly enough, such thoughts have nothing to do with my approaching birthday and everything to do with other major approaching events in my life.
Years ago I wrote creatively a great deal; today I seem to have forgotten this responsibility. Years ago I was something of an armchair philosopher (and not a bad one, I might add); today I seem also to have forgotten this responsibility, or rather, I seem to have sublimated the impulse beneath shelves of Hegel, Heidegger, Schopenauer, and Kant.
Armchair was better, as were my scraps of paper filled with free verse.
Not that the past was better on the whole; it wasn't.
But moving into the future need not (and should not) imply the loss of that which one found to be good in the past.
Time for all that is old to be new once again.