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There’s no going back to innocence. The garden gates stay shut. Aging tells you this: that bad decisions remain consequential; that wrinkles in the brow stay stamped there.
An entire (cult)ure of perpetual youth builds its argument on the false proposition that we don’t get worn down; that the body is not subject to entropy; that vitality doesn’t leak away.
The point of getting older was to get wiser — but now we don’t recognize wisdom; we just demand that old bodies go back to being fitter and happier, like they used to be — young.
Bodies step onto the train, oblivious to the fact that they have a little less charge on the battery than the day before, and will inevitably have even less tomorrow, however imperceptibly.
Last night, I was drinking Belgian beer at my sister’s place close to midnight; at 6:50am, it’s still rumbling in my guts. I don’t feel anxious, just aware that this is how things might be for the rest of my life. I should give up on the heroic fantasy of remaining young and strive for something else. Am I wise enough to follow my own advice?
I look at my face in the glass of the subway doors —
