I have left youth and skipped middle age. I am an old man. I rise early, I eat simply, I exercise regularly, I am sober as a nun. I no longer find sarcasm interesting. Mockery is similarly cheap and unflattering. I speak plainly and sparingly. I’d like to laugh a little, but I don’t have it in me.
I run alone. I do not push my cardiovascular limits. I run to get away from others. I think as the world courses by.
I ask over and over: What now? As I strip off humor and excitement, I’m left with cynicism. No one may want to associate with the puritan I have become. As I cut away the unnecessary, I touch rawness and pain. Pain of what? Of being left out? Of opportunities lost? Of disappointment?
I sequester myself. I am more interested in projects, this inward project of myself, than people. I have lots of time. I want to spend it creating, cleansing, and improving. Poor Greg- I’m not interested in relationships.
Is sobriety a phase or a trajectory? Is this what aging does? I don’t see the old in bars and parties.