Getting old is sad. There’s no other way to say it. We grow wiser, sure. We achieve some semblance of stability and security and love, but eventually, we pass that threshold where things are more likely to break down than look up. It’s not an emotion, this sadness. It’s more like I’m driving my shoulder into a mountain or a stone wall of truth and it’s slowly dawning on me that this is the new reality. Shit, I’m 28 I’m not even old yet. I’m not supposed to feel this way.

It’s not just about the past either. Some have problems letting go, whether it’s a dream or a place or a person. Some haven’t grown or changed their state of mind enough to let the window to those glory days get foggy. For me, it’s the prospect of the future and the sense of wasted time. We all want a future that we build to, a landmark. But out of nowhere the future decides to settle right here, right where you are, and that’s when a man needs to take stock of what he’s built and decide if that’s enough. It almost never is - hence, the quarter- and mid-life crises. We suddenly feel the urge to build, to start piling shit onto our pathetic present. Maybe toss a porsche in there or a horse or a plastic brunette in a hotel room (or a lame ranting blog post). Whatever it is, it is impulsive and exhilarating. And like the the rush and rashness of youth, it is fleeting.

Fleeting like hairlines and waistlines. Memory runs away too and so does learning. And maybe saddest of all, the fire. We are all just fires slowly dying. Cooled by comfort and smothered by fear. The more comfortable we are, the more we’re afraid of losing. The house, the job, the spouse, the kid, the dog: there’s always so much more to lose and even that’s sad in a way. Our bodies deterioriate and we can no longer build, there is no more future.

My dad always tells me that each decade of his life was better than the last; that each passing year has offered a fun and fulfilling and meaningful life no matter how grim the outlook. I’m still terrified because I’m convinced that the time ahead could never be as a great as the time I’ve wasted. The mind and body can only be worse from here. The downward slope is debilitating.

Suffice it to say: I am not satisfied. Life is fun. Life is easy. And the future arrived ahead of schedule because this was the path I built. I left out fulfillment and now there’s an overwhelming sense that it’s too late. This is stupid, I know. But this is why getting old is sad: it’s harder and harder to remind oneself that it’s not too late.

I’m 28. I want to write. I want to create. I want to build. It’s not too late. The music is still going. Fuck you, future, you’re not here yet.

I’ve still got time to build.