Getting Older

This is going to be a different sort of post, more melancholy and personal. So if you don’t care much for navel-gazing, avert thine eyes and skip it.

I just learned that a shopping mall that I’d spent quite a lot of time at years back is no longer around (at least, not in the form of a mall). It was a jarring moment. I’d seen movies there, frequently stopped by for meals at the food court, and even actually bought stuff at various outlets. And now going there and doing that is no longer possible.

In high school, I noted my surprisingly lean figure, and managed to keep it well into my early twenties. Then, just recently, I tried on some clothes I tend to save for fancier occasions, and found that not only did they not fit, but somewhere between my last wearing of them and now, my waist had grown about six inches.

When I was a kid, I feared death. I loved being alive, loved experiencing all that I could. I was frequently terrified by my mortality, and found myself looking into ways to prolong my lifespan (I eventually concluded that I needed to become something akin to a deity in order to overcome any threats to my continued existence, and then started to wonder if maybe that’s how gods are born, not out of a lust for power but a desire to avoid harm, and then to stave off boredom, they start creating things and fuck off somewhere to enjoy the show). Then, to be realistic, I started looking into ways to come to terms with death and its seeming inevitability. Now that I’m older, I find myself frequently tired of life, and even long for oblivion in more desperate moments. I’ve begun to understand just why certain religions seek to escape the cycle of life.

I used to think of professional athletes as grown-ups doing their jobs while young prospects in the minor leagues were older kids than I. Now I look at ballplayers and notice that they’re younger than I am, while the stars of my childhood are retired and up for a potential place in the Hall of Fame.

So many of the little things that are familiar to me have faded from the world. Eateries, shops, landmarks, even roads and paint jobs. You can’t help but feel oddly wistful looking upon something that should seem familiar yet comes across as alien because of a sense that there’s something missing from the picture you’ve painted in your mind through the years. It’s the nostalgia you get when you remember your childhood home that now houses a different family or learning that a familiar adult figure of authority grew old and frail when you weren’t watching.

The world keeps turning and everything that defined my understanding of it is gradually vanishing from sight to be replaced by something new and alien. More and more I feel like it’s passing me by.

I’ve begun to understand the mindset of the elderly and the conservative. When change happens, and the world becomes more and more unfamiliar, you can’t help but want to hold onto something. Some sort of familiar landmark in a strange land, a safe haven that lets you know that the world is still recognizable, that there’s still a place for you in it.

I’m getting older, and honestly, it’s quite a strange and sad experience.