And I’ll cry* about my own mortality if I want to. Pun definitely intended.
Anyway I digress, I’m now twenty seven. Still feels weird to say/write that.
Now I’ve heard all the ‘age is but a number’ bullshit before. But last night as I lay in bed, I felt this real sense of my own mortality. And not in some morbid horrible way, just this seemingly ridiculous realisation that time does indeed tick away and we actually do get older regardless of what we might feel inside. As if I didn’t know that happened before, obviously I did, but it seemed to really smack me in the face last night.
Three years until thirty, thirteen until forty, twenty three until fifty. I was literally thinking those exact thoughts. The thing is I’m not afraid of getting older, I’ve said it before that I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s not even about the number, it’s about the time.
At twenty seven I’ve been kicking around on Earth for nearly ten thousand days, that’s over two hundred and thirty thousand hours, a shitload of minutes and way to many seconds to think about.
I wear a digital watch, because I’m cool like that, and a few days ago I was looking down at it watching some of those seconds flick over and it was such a strange feeling. The time was slipping away as I stood there. Perhaps slipping is a bad choice of word. Passing, flitting, lapsing, fading, expiring. Ok they all suck, except maybe flitting.
It’s an odd feeling to ponder your own mortality, to think about ageing and consider what you’ll be like at those milestone ages, or even just, you know, next month. And what slipped hand in hand with my thoughts on my own mortality was an overwhelming sense of how big my to do list was. I’m not talking about everyday things I have to do, I’m talking about the big picture lifelong goals and dreams I have.
Suddenly I felt, still feeling that a little, overwhelmed by all the things I want to do and see and accomplish. It’s a feeling of my own doing, if I didn’t build castles in the sky, if I didn’t dream big and sets my sights enormously high I wouldn’t be overwhelmed. But I also wouldn’t be me.
Perhaps these thoughts, these moments of contemplation are a sign that I’m growing up, that at twenty seven I’m reaching a point in my life where real adulthood actually starts. Not the kind associated with working and studying and voting and being legally allowed to drink and driving and getting yourself a mortgage and moving out and travelling the world.
I’m talking about the real adulthood that occurs when you can think about your own mortality and be overwhelmed by what you want from life in a constructive and meaningful way, and not just cry about that shit.
I’m not sure what the point of this post was, or if it even needs one, just had these thoughts and wanted to share.
*no crying actually occurred in the making of this post.