I knew I was getting older
When I started to resent young people
And the promise their youth held,
Especially if they were doing things right,
Because my youth had been a disaster.
I made every mistake and invented some new ones.
I don’t regret it because I like who I am today
And I learned a lot through it all
But I still wish that I could have skipped a few of those classes.
If life were perfect, we’d all get to be young twice
So we could get it right the second time.
Of course, that’s not how it works.
We only get one shot, one chance
To make something of ourselves,
To make our lives mean something
Or to simply enjoy living completely.
There’s nothing worse than looking back and thinking,
“I had it all then. I should have been happy.”
It has always struck me as sad and wrong
That pain feeds on pain, despair on despair.
Those who have a troubled childhood
Should be rewarded with a happy adulthood.
But it usually doesn’t happen that way.
Troubled children grow up to be troubled adults
Struggling to salvage what is left of their souls.
Succeeding in that effort;
Conquering demons and emerging victorious
From “the dark night of the soul”
Is a glorious achievement with many rewards,
But it does not negate or lessen the regret
Of missing out on what childhood
Was supposed to have been.
Nothing can replace those years.
The same is true when we’re young adults.
How we live then determines
How we feel when we’re old.
If we pursued our greatest dream
And did our best to make it real,
We feel integrity and peace
When we reach the end of life,
“The autumn of our years.”
If we were untrue to ourselves, we feel despair,
Grieving our own lives while still living them.
The old folks we playfully call “cranky”
Are that way because they’re buried in disappointment.
They can’t forgive themselves
For misspending the only life they’ll ever get.
Youth is such a glorious thing
And almost always squandered,
Toiled away with studies
In the struggle to become respectable,
The realization of dreams postponed
In the name of making a living,
Or worse, lamenting and unable to move
Because of childhood traumas.
But how much money does it take
To stave off the regret of wasted youth?
How many accomplishments can soothe
The frittering away of the best years of life?
Time will steal the bloom from the most glorious rose
And always, always too soon.
There is no reward for pain.
We create the reward.
There is no meaning in suffering
Except that which we imbue it with.
Pain can be added to pain forever
Until we die, broken and alone,
The pain manifesting itself as disease.
The world is full of unhappy old people
Whose wrinkled faces and hollow eyes
Hide young girls and young men
Running off to their first proms
With carefree hearts.
No wealth is more worthless than unspent youth.
It is sad, wrong and a little pathetic
To be old and envy the young
So whatever you dream of doing,
Go and do it. Right now, today.
This is it.
This is your life.
It’s fleeting by as you read this.
Live it.
What is your reason for postponing your dream?
There will always be a reason
And the responsibilities and tasks
That seem so important now
Will still be there when you return.
Take the first step.
Live today as if you’ll be old tomorrow
Because when you are old,
That’s exactly what it will feel like.
The realization that we will never be
All the things we dreamed we might
Comes late in life, when it’s too late.
Because we cling to the delusion
That we will be young forever,
And because aging happens so slowly
That “old” is always twenty years away.
Eighty year-olds look at 100 year-olds and think,
“Look at that old buzzard. At least I’m not that old.”
But eventually, the frightening realization sinks in
That we will never be young and in love
Riding through the Italian countryside in a convertible,
Or that we'll never have the big family we always wanted,
Or be a movie star or famous writer,
That too much time has passed
And the chances are getting slimmer by the day.
And we start to lament the loss,
And measure how much youth is left
And how soon we will be old,
And imagine how and when we will die.
Those thoughts usually mark the beginning of truly living,
Perhaps for the first time since we were children,
When it came naturally.
So again, my friend, I ask you,
What is your reason for postponing your dream?
Adding your comment:
~val~
BUT as I read thsi whole word to word, it is pretty enough to reflect it's beauty.
)
)
