A thread for pub-talk, ramblings to get off your chest and throw-away philosophical dribble.
Getting older, and I'm not even that old, I've noticed that my view on everything and my attitude towards anything changes. Even to something as ridiculously thoughtless and simple as partying.
It used to be that a party was a sprint. You went in; full adrenaline, hyped up. You binged and danced untill you crashed. More than once, you didn't even make it 'till all that late in the evening; burned out and wasted. A party was exhausting.
But putting in the effort and the energy was also rewarding. It was gratifying and left you with both the ultimate runner's high as well as those little pains in your body you could easily mistake for bliss. And pride; such pride for the intensity with which you managed to party. It was a race for which you brought all you had to the table. Part because you were still so much more energetic and filled with ideals and unbridled energy. Part to impress others. Part because you were afraid that if you stopped before you were out of breath, you'd miss out on something and find yourself with regrets.
Getting older, that race has turned more and more into a marathon. You prepare for the party in advance. You don't just rush in. You need to make sure you can get there in time. It's stretching before the long, long run. You make sure you have time to recuperate after, or otherwise, you might as well not go. You have responsibilities and need to make sure you don't wind up with an incapacitating injuries or too much stress on your body.
And while still great fun and most enjoyable, droning on a much slower pace, you can't but feel that itch. It's that little voice within you, growing just that little bit weaker with each step in each jog you do, begging you to run as hard as you can. That little voice telling you how much you want to feel your lungs burn. To be left gasping and red-faced. That small part of the younger you refusing to die and demanding to feel anything, even if it's the tired and burning sensation running through all your muscles. The part of you that would rather be destroyed than give up.
Once in a while, you can't help but listen. And when you do, you feel it the day after. Sick, lifeless and broken. The ache not nearly as satisfying as promised. More regret than anything, really, and shame in letting yourself be fooled you were a younger man or woman, capable of handling what your heart wanted while your brain knew better.
You're jogging through the great marathon of life now. Half recreation. Half a chore. It's no longer a race in which you have to squeeze every drop to get the gold medal. Day's of running as hard as your young little legs could carry you are left behind, further and further, with each step you take.
And soon you'll be walking.