Lately I've been thinking of my misspent youth. Not in regret, mind you; just......well, there are things you just don't ever forget. And trust me, there is a LOT about my younger days I forgot. Most of it instantaneously. But the things you remember. Ah, that's what a memory's for.
Anyway, it brings me to contemplate the passage of time. I don't feel any different at 46 than I did at 16. Mentally. Physically, forget it. I can't even jump a puddle on the sidewalk anymore. But mentally: I still look at the world from the same eyes, I guess.
All this has been prologue to my main point though. If I gave it time, no pun intended, I could state my thesis with my customary eloquence. But I'm tired, and want to cut to the chase.
So here it is: the passage of time as described by two different poets, separated by centuries. The attributions should be obvious.
"Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way."
"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death."
Either way, it's pretty bleak.