When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
As far as life experiences, I find just about everything gets better with age. It’s probably to do with the dawning realization that most of the shit one has gotten worked up about over the years wasn’t worth it (as well as the realization that one has fewer years ahead than behind and so one had better get on with it in an aware kind of way.) As icing on the cake, I’m virtually certain to be long gone before the oceans boil or the robots rise up and massacre humanity.
If the question is what kind of things get better with age… certainly not french fries.
I remember when I could remember,
but these days I invariably forget.
My life isn’t even in its September
but by absent-mindedness I’m beset.
My keys? My keys? Where are they please?
I’ve searched from ceiling to floor.
My keys? My keys? Where are they please?
No, I’m certain I didn’t ask that before.
Once I juggled a hundred tasks right within my mind.
Now I need write a list if they number more than two.
Buy stock in the makers of legal pads, if you’re so inclined
What were we talking about? There’s something I need to do…
Tiger Riding for Beginners 