Age has a way of dulling passion. You can say “tempering” instead of dulling if you prefer, but it all adds up to less: less feeling, less expression, less certainty.
Rage doesn’t happen. The white hot uncontrollable, flinging, spewing, guitar-smashing fire ebbs away. Its space is taken up by tutting sarcasm, stealth sniping, detached cynicism that just can’t be bothered.
The acquisition of wisdom means self-containment. My life becomes a mask of calm politeness and you can only wonder whether or not it reflects the truth.
Age makes hypocrites of us all.
When you were twelve, you said any old stupid thing and the people you didn’t scare off are probably still your friends now that you’re fifty.
When you were twenty, you knew everything and you shared your knowledge with everyone. The people you didn’t alienate are now your family.
Note: This is a writing exercise from a book called Writing Life Stories. I’m feeling pretty good right now, so don’t worry too much about the weirdness.