I have been thinking about growing.
I am less immature than I used to be…
the same wounds still find ways to surface.
and I don’t even see them coming,
’til suddenly I am angry,
Therein lies the glory of age.
The chance to do better.
To get better.
To be less reactive, less surprised by my shortcomings, calmer, wiser, surrendered.
What’s that poem by Dylan Thomas? No wait, I’m mixing my messages. I’m thinking of that poem he wrote about fighting off weakness, “Old age should burn and rage at close of day. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Which is lovely – and I suppose it connects – I would like to be a person that rages against the dying of the light. Yes, yes, I like that.