Every year I sense how little I know. And not in the cool Zen sense of becoming an empty glass ready to be filled, but in the sense of senility, where I am certain that I was smarter the year before and ever smarter the further back I look.
My vocabulary is dwindling. Photos remind me of days I had long forgotten. I can’t remember anyone’s name. And I mean: I’m still shaking their hand, I tried my damnedest, and I can’t remember their name.
Part of my worry with everything I write is that I’m getting dumber and dumber. It’s a real fear. And I know there are people twice my age shaking their heads and wishing they could reach through my blog and slap some sense into me, but believe me: I’ve banged my head a number of times over the years. Perhaps you’re holding up better than I am. Hitting me certainly won’t help.
I console myself with this: When I read stuff I wrote back when I was smarter, I find myself pleasantly surprised. Startled, even. Doing that to your future self is pretty cool. One day, I’ll read this blog with a few more numbing years behind me, and I’ll think: Shit. It’s still happening.