I was talking to a couple of guys last night at poker. I've met them before and know their names, but I don't know much else about them. Turns out that one of them is a year older than me and one of them a year younger; 53 and 55.

In between calling bets, folding and raising we mumbled a comment each about 'getting on a bit':

"Time is no longer unlimited. It makes for greater focus."

"I've been through a lot, survived all kinds of situations. I don't worry about little things anymore."

"It's not too bad. I preferred being younger."

I think one of these was really said. I just made up the other two. No one really talks about anything meaningful at a poker table. We're all trying to win the hand. If nothing else, it is a game that demands concentration (for optimum play).

But what of getting older? Hitting the mid fifties?

It is a surprise somedays, to look in the mirror at myself and notice that my face and head have aged. Of course, I know that decades have passed since I was young. I was there. But at the same time, it doesn't feel like that long. 

If I was to still look 35 or even 40, I would not find it discomforting or strange. It's as though the ageing of the body kind of rushes on ahead, on it's own volition, at a certain point and then calls out to you, 'Hey look! This is you! You've got grey! You've got wrinkles now! Less hair - on the head - and more inside the ears!'

Acceptance is the only option, of course. A cynical surrender. A dissassociative shrug.

On the inside remains the sterling will, the sharp focus, the tuned awareness. In fact, over time, some of the internal mechanisms have actually improved. Experience is the greatest of teachers. Lessons have been learnt. Dues paid. 

And then you start to consider people who you have know or have met or interacted with over the last while who are in their sixties and seventies. You don't feel quite as distanced from them anymore. You understand the slight slowing down, the laid back attitude, the inner quiet that some possess.

You realise that you are on the verge of joining a new club. You are also on the verge of leaving an old one. Younger people aren't seeing you as one of them any more. They haven't for a while probably. But you are noticing it more. It's fine, it's alright, because you have been in the club for long enough. It's activities don't interest or inspire like they used to. You are seeking something different. Something with new rewards. 

It is not all about more, more, more anymore. It is not about being as extreme as possible. It is not about affectation. It is not about talking up your game, seeking attention.

There is no time for these things. Time has become more precious. You want to fill it with things of true value. Things that are meaningful and enduring. 

If you really think about it, you realise that it is all laid out for you. The process. The sequence of a life. It has been done by all before and will be done by all after. Your perception shifts in an age-appropriate way. In a sense, there is no option. You realise the limits of being. But you also realise the miraculous wonder and grace and beauty of it all. You realise that you are only a tiny player in a massive game. You, in truth, are of little consequence. You will, whether you like it or not, be leaving before too long. It may still be a few decades off but what's a few decades? Weren't you just 35 yesterday?

And time goes faster, too. That you can attest to. Days whiz by. A year isn't long. This has it's benefits, too, though. You know that you can plan things in advance, work towards things and that the future will bring reward if you do. You have seen how things work. You have made the mistakes. And you have learnt.

So, it seems, a life is just that. It is something to experience. A complex, intricate sequence of events that connect together in the form of days lived and things done. All the emotions generated and spent, all the people that have come and gone, the places visited, the experiences lived through. All that. And what? Here you sit writing about it all, and it's as though it was just a story. There is no proof. No one else cares, not really. It has all amounted to nothing - in some ways. And yet - there are feelings of, I don't know, accomplishment, achievement, value, dignity, honour, amusement, bewilderment, satisfaction, acceptance....

It's like... OK. Hmmm... OK. Let's just keep going, then. I kind of get the idea now. I'm past the middle, heading into the third act. I still have some options. I shouldn't waste them (like I have in the past) (as you do). 

I have become someone. I have an identity. A past. I can work with it. There is a level of comfort, familiarity. I know what works and what doesn't. I'm going to gather up what remains available to me, take a clear and honest look at my current position and situation and see what I can do to create something interesting, something of worth. 

Yeah, I'm still here. I'm going to give it a shot. See if I can't surprise myself, outdo myself, extend myself beyond limitations set in the past. If this is me now, who is the me that I am going to be in ten years from now? Who do I want that to be? Pretty sure no one else is going to make it happen. I'm going to step up. Yeah, I'm going to really start living. Not the kind of living you do when you are young and it's all presented to you, tank full and no limits. No, a new kind of living. Decidedly different. A take-control but let-it-go kind of thing. A new awareness. A new care. A new gratitude. And with all that - a new chance to fully discover and perhaps even become one's truest, true self.

​Sounds like a plan.

I browsed through some of my poetry book from fifteen, sixteen years ago and I was struck by how much time and circumstance have changed my headspace, heartspace, outlook and inlook. 

I was reminded by the poems that I used to have quite the romanticised view of the world. Reading them I was moved by the sentiments and surprised by the depth of feeling and, to be honest, kind of impressed by the verbal dexterity and inventiveness.

A lot has changed. The last half a dozen years have served up a series of challenges, one after the other; financial, medical, emotional, physical, circumstantial.... all the 'al's.

In old school parlance - I was put through the ringer. So much so, in fact, that in sessions with my counsellor we have identified that I have manifested symptoms of PTSD. And it feels that way. Like I have been in the trenches, been bombarded. Worn down. Mettle tested. Stretched out and strung up.

I do believe I am making my way out of it. Some of the heavier blue-grey clouds have lifted. The notion of peace, of an occasional mild happiness is not implausible. 

Reading the poems from back then made me realise how I've been worn down by situations and circumstances beyond my control. In each case I have mustered up my best defence, dealt with things as best as I can, tried to stay positive. But I never anticipated just how taxing the cumulative effect would be.

I don't think there is any going back. At times i wasn't sure I was completely willing or even able to continue forward. But now, I am rebuilding. Using what I've got, dusting off some of the old tools, repairing the broken pathways, patching up the gaping holes...

And in doing so, finding and accepting a different me, an older and wiser self, a survivor, a veteran. I have come to terms with surrender. I practice gratitude. I strive to be more of service.

And slowly, day by day, my hunger and my hope are becoming reanimated, revitalised. I have missed them. My whole being has been compromised and my wounds have still not healed, but I am able to walk on my own again, the will is there again, it's stronger now and my only choice is to buck up and stand up and try again.

I tried hiding away, running away, denial, avoidance. I tried suppressing the emotions, subjugating the pain, rationalising the wrath. It may have worked partially at the time but now I need a new strategy. I need to forge forward with what I have got, gather up the broken pieces, the dream fragments and the shards of idealism and see what I can make.

This is the journey of a human. This is life. 

What a surprise.

In a way, I am lucky to have another chance. Not everyone does. Some beautiful friends have died already. Giving up is not an option I will again consider. I want to be there at the end. I want to write poems again.

See, the thing is - the more you live the more you learn. And the more you learn the more you realise that all that you know is really so little. You acquire wisdom but you do not become necessarily higher functioning because wisdom itself is finite. And life is infinite and ever changing.

I guess what I am trying to say is that when you are younger you think that at some stage you'll have it all worked out. Well - you never do. The game keeps shifting.

One thing that becomes apparent is that life is hard. It's a constant struggle. It's demanding. Things need to be attended to. There is no escape. There is no easy way out. 

Life never becomes what we imagined it would become. It becomes something very different. It becomes that same thing that it always was, and always has been: a challenge.

Each of us, struggling to work things out, get it together, get to a place where we can relax and enjoy. But this is impossible. The nature of existence is that you constantly get bombarded with difficulties to overcome.

Like the turtle in the picture above, we are going nowhere. If we are lucky we might make it to water. But even then we must evade predators, find food, keep moving. 

Like T, most of us develop hard exteriors and as often as we can, retreat inside ourselves - grateful to escape the demands of the day, the surroundings, the activities. Over the years we have somehow constructed and nurtured a complex and hopefully comfortable relationship with our inner selves. We've devised a silent sanctuary to which we can retreat. 

Nobody likes being hassled, stressed, to have demands put upon them. We just want to be left alone. We just want to breathe easy for a while. To not have to attend to the never ending demands.

We are souls trapped inside the bodies manifest of human beings. And it is hard work. Do we not, all of us, wish life was... different? Why isn't it the way we all wish it could be? Why have we chosen, on some deeper level, to attend this form of existence? Is it really worth it? Why are there not other options? Mankind seems to be taking far, far too long to evolve. Where's the bliss? How far to heaven on earth? We are tired of being turtles stuck on a bird bath.

Is anyone listening? Anyone who can do anything about it?

Of course not. Feels good to have had a whinge. A lament. A sigh put into words. At least we have this - we can share our feelings and thoughts with fellow sufferers. We can unite in our misery. Come together in hardship. Perhaps it is our salvation. Perhaps it is the point. To join together.

All is know is - in the end you die. And the end comes to quickly. Sure life is pain and heart ache - but why does it have to end so soon?