so mike drives in the point that well, 35 is really middle age. i mean, he says, what’s really the quality of life past 70?
and it’s bad enough that growing up terrifies me. i can’t stand it. it puts me into a panic. time is fucking irreversible.
the problem is of course there is much too much alone time around me. between working nights and just staying up late because i have always been that way. too much night and tv, youth replacing youth, growing old with the newscasters of my youth, seeing them replaced, hearing how another just past away (Roger Gimble and Bill Beutel and Peter Jennings; although Jennings was a shock).
and another child on the way; a boy and the panic rears its head quicker and harder and blunt.
in the moment of making love to my wife, in the moment of playing with my daughter, where time stops and i no longer think of myself and my place and the time that has left me and the time head that is leaving me, there is sudden and abrupt delight and peace and i am alive, i am young, i am forever.
all i have is them and they are becoming all i need and all i will ever want.