When I was 40, and 45, and even 50, I used to think about life as ending at 60. Beyond 60 was a kind of hinterland that I had no thought to consider. Living beyond was a blank.
But now, just a year and a bit from 60, I’m peering into a distance that is no more far flung. I stand at a frontier and am watchful.
In this navigation-less journey, how to know how far I’ve come, how far I’m yet to go? Is there somewhere to get to? Something other to become? In this moment, I’m clueless.
Facing the frontier, my vision is peculiarly bifocal, looking forwards and back at the same time. A creeping unrest fills my breast, a bizarre wail of melancholy singed with anger: Is this all, is this all there is to living?
I face the frontier, and I’m watchful.