“There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.”
Virginia Woolf
This feeling enveloped me around the time I hit 60. The old clichés about time moving more quickly are true. It’s spinning out of our control. Suddenly lots of things seem a bit lame. A waste of effort and energy for little reward. Like dusting or pretending to be friends with people who drain our energy. I have flashbacks now of instances in my life. Situations I put or found myself in. The way people were with me and I wonder at my stupidity and silence with the hindsight of age. Should I have done more with my life? Should I still be doing more now? is this it? Is this all?
Sorry Virginia but there is no more. Not really.