I confess, the state of being “aged” remains a mystery to me. The same pains flare, the same passions burn as they did in my youth. The mirror shows merely a surface—a hide toughened by weathering, a map of survived challenges. It proves nothing of the soul within.

Around me, I see a parody of growth: old children in wrinkled skin, repeating infantile nonsense. Their creases are not runes of wisdom, but the crumpled paper of a life unread. I have travelled, and I smile at the West’s frantic worship of the young surface, a market where so many have sold their depth to purchase a shiny, empty shell.

I think of the fools of my generation, who believed their tantrums were a birthright—only the scale of their toys grew larger. My own rebirth, I find, is reflected in the eyes of those I raised. It is they who speak of fearing my end, a fear I do not share. Death is an old acquaintance; I faced it as a younger man. My grief is reserved for the songs I can no longer hear sung by voices now silent.

Age has taught me caution, yes, and the value of a well-laid plan, for I have known failure and learned its precise cost. I do not fear it; I respect its consequences.

I have found an unexpected reverence in the East, where my experience and learning are not dismissed by the nappy-fillers who surround me here, who see only the external shell. I will not hasten my own oblivion, for I know the journey is one-way.

Let it be clear: age and maturity are not wed. Few things fester more than an old fool, his follies grown heavy and sour. I look at today’s graduates, these titled clowns who ticked boxes only to ascend in income or class, and I mourn the decline of true education.

And yet, I know my fortune. In a world where I count few friends, I have allies who value my worth. I have a child who treasures me, and a wife whose smile is a sun that rises just for me. So, I dance. In the supermarket aisle, to a tune entirely my own, far removed from the bland music surrounding the throng.