One day, you will arrive at a time when it is a great surprise to you to discover that you are, in fact, the same age as those around you. A rift will appear in the foundation of your Earth—it may be when you balk at being asked on a date by an old guy before you realize he’s exactly your age, or the first time a doctor gives “age” as an answer to your question about why something is happening in your body, or the moment you realize a conversation with a friend centered around your plans for old age.
It begins small, this rift—as small as a wrinkle, a light crease where it was smooth as an egg before. Then it grows, this fracture between the You you feel and the You you are. It may widen into a crevasse or lengthen and divide you right in two. You may notice others stepping gingerly around the fissure, or worse, not trying to cross it at all.
You’ll have a choice, too: will you carefully avoid the age gap, or ignore it, or take steps to stitch it back together? How long can you live with one foot on each side of the fissure—or will you choose a side? Which side will you choose?
I know people who live only in the past. I know people who live only in the future. I’d like to live fully in the moment, and I wonder if that means living in the gap, and do you have to jump, and what’s waiting down there?