Heavy. Constant pressure on top the shoulders, sometimes on top the head. Relentless. Never ceasing. Like a waterfall...seemingly innocuous, yet deadly in its constancy.
It isn't easy being old. It takes steady efforts to be optimistic as joints freeze up and ache, as peers leave this world around you, as the long, colorful patchwork of your life looks endless...but stretches behind you, not in front. It is daunting to realize the count of your earthly days is way smaller in the future than in the past. Yet we persevere. If we are lucky, we parlay that wisdom into increased kindness, understanding, empathy to those around us. We realize that most of our personal crises just aren't important.
Mornings are our most difficult. I try cheerfulness, but it is most often greeted with a kind of morbid paranoia these days. Example: (me) "Well, good morning! You got all dressed by yourself! That's wonderful!" (him) "Yeah, well, I know you. I'll be dead soon." Try as I might, I feel the weight, the burden, the grey of our days settle around my shoulders like a familiar, unwelcome guest.