I just turned 37, which is way closer to 40 than I ever imagined myself getting. That’s not to say that I didn’t think I’d make it to 40, it’s just to say that I’ve never imagined myself getting this old.
In reality, 37 feels about the same as 27 did. Only older.
It’s one more example for me that life is somehow a circular thing. No matter how far I go, how much I change or stay the same, how different my life circumstances turn out to be, I always somehow end up in the exact same place. It’s like the Mayan theory of time passage. So what’s the point of moving ahead, other than sheer boredom?
What I feel differently now amounts close to panic. That is the difference between 27 and 37. In both cases, I definitely felt the pressure of time running out. Only now I have ten years added to that – with all the same have-nots in my life, and I still have no plan. And it’s no one’s fault but my own.
Why do I feel like so much time is passing me by? It slips like water through my fingers – cold and invisible, it drips away until there is nothing left but the memory of it.