“The innocent and
the beautiful have no enemy but time.” — W. B. Yeats
Time is a miserable son of a bitch. It
doesn't give two shits how good-looking you are, how innocent your intentions,
or how much money you have tucked away.
It comes for everybody. No exceptions… No
appeals... No senior citizen discounts…
When we are young, we think time is
something we have plenty of. We waste it like a drunken sailor on shore leave.
We wish away Mondays, count the days until Friday arrives, and spend our
childhood begging to be older. Then one morning we look in the mirror and
wonder who the hell that old bastard staring back is.
Yeats understood the cruel joke. Beauty
fades, innocence disappears, and the clock never stops ticking. I wonder if the
old Irishman wasn't overlooking something.
Time might steal our youth, but it leaves
a few presents behind.
Wrinkles come with stories. Gray hair
comes with wisdom, or at least enough experience to recognize stupidity when it
walks in the room.
Innocence?
Maybe we lose a little of that every time
life knocks us on our ass, but we do gain something in return. Understanding, compassion
and the ability to appreciate what we have gathered across the calendar.
The real tragedy isn't growing old. It is
spending so much time mourning yesterday that we forget to enjoy today.
Time may be undefeated, but that doesn't
mean we have to surrender without a fight.
…And if we are lucky, we will grow old enough to become beautifully guilty of living one hell of a life.
