Strange Days

Strange thing about getting old and residing with the Spectre of Mortality is that every day seems to be briefer and consequently so do the weeks, months and years. Let’s not court fate by talking decades. It’s not as if the days are busier and the mind more occupied; it is just seemingly a fact of life, as if some entity is trying to get you to hurry on. “We need the space.” I am not the first to recognise it; cruise liners capitalise on it. Nor do I use it as an excuse to pine for what might have been and the opportunities missed. Not for me retrospective regrets, nor moribund morbidity. But nor will I succumb to trite sayings such as “today is the first…” etc, still less for the contrived inspirational sayings that are supposed to change your life and are usually presented to a backdrop of a beautiful sunset. I’ll leave Facebook posters to those—they do them so well, and frequently. No, for me it’s just a case of getting on with the rest of my life, living for the day (trite?) and enjoying the people around me—most of them. Life is after all what it is. And I am what I am. Content.