in the end of

Heard an old (aren’t they all) ABBA song today, HAPPY NEW YEAR, and was reminded again at how fast the time flies, even those moments that seemed to drag at the time.

In that song they sing about what lies waiting down the line in ten years time, in the end of eighty-nine. Meaning I first heard it in 79.

But those 10 years to the end of 89, which would have felt like SUCH a long time away to me as a kid, have long since passed, plus almost another TWENTY-FIVE on top. Where? How?

I’m not being (overly) melancholic, but these things leave me wondering. People who were my age now back then are more likely to be dead, or mostly less aware (than even me) of what’s happening around them. That’s not being morbid, just a fact almost, I guess, as they approach 80. I still can’t quite imagine that age, despite being closer to it than the kid I was, and if the next 35 years slip by as quickly as the last I may not even see it coming.

So I better do what I can with what I have, and appreciate those around me, those in my head and my heart. And make the most of whatever I want to do with my time, however much is left for me.

Not really sure what this post has been about. Things passing too easily, perhaps. Passing unseen. And, if you remove just a handful of people, as things stand I will pass mostly unseen. Unread. Unfelt. Untouched.

Crikey. Can you feel the melancholia now…? 😉

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2 Comments

  1. I feel your pain…believe me; especially the last part about passing unseen, unread, unfelt, untouched. I suppose my greatest regret-so far–is not finding a companion I am truly happy with. I am 13 years into my second marriage, and it’s an okay marriage, but he doesn’t “get” me and I don’t “get” him. Our minds do not share common ground. And since I am 60 now, I don’t think I will ever have a companion that I am truly happy with–not that I’m looking, because I most definitely am not. And the thought that I will go to my grave without someone knowing and loving the real me sometimes makes me sad.

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    1. Yeah, that sums up my feelings pretty much spot on most days. Well, apart from…

      I don’t have a husband (of 13 years or otherwise).

      And I’m not a woman.

      And I’m a teenager younger (though don’t feel it some days).

      But I don’t have that person, either, and never truly have, though I’ve been fortunate to feel loved by a handful of people over the years. There was one who “got me” more than the others, but still never really knew the whole me.

      But then maybe that isn’t REALLY possible? At least not outside of fiction?

      Like

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