Tomorrow is my birthday-again.
Maybe when you are old, it seems like time is speeding up so that at the end of your life your old age is easier to endure. Maybe the speeded up version of time is a kind of perverted compassion to all creatures by Mother Nature.
When I was a child, it took years to get to my birthday and now, they seem like just the other day.
I cannot see why we celebrate birthdays after the age of sixty. In fact, they should be banned.
Have you ever thought that a birthday’s opposite is a death day. And the older you get, the closer it gets. Are old aged persons celebrating that? Or are they celebrating their longevity? Either way, I don’t like birthdays.
They remind me of loss after a certain age. Another year gone, another bit dropped off, another slow down, another wrinkle, another hair thinning, skin thinning, arthritic knuckle, bruise, blemish, entropy, atrophy, decay celebrating day.
Are we daft? I think birthdays are a day other people make you the excuse to celebrate for themselves.
Is there aught we can do?
No, there isn’t. Just bring the damn thing on Father Time, I’ll grin and bear another birthday. And remember with gratitude that I live in modern times. I have not been devoured by a sabre toothed tiger because I’m slow, nor stamped on by a woolly mammoth because I’m small and weak.
That’s a blessing I suppose.