When you are young, your life is a dot,
a seemingly insignificant dot—small, restricted in ability and opportunity—and yet,
there is a swelling awareness of the bigness of life, the largeness of the thing called
future. And you have the courage to dream.
And you grow and expand,
and the world is bigger and bigger with more opportunities than you can manage; then
it isn’t. Big, I mean.
Opportunities start collapsing, turning inward as the spinning slows,
turning back on themselves, diminishing with the passing of days.
The skills and accomplishments, though real, fit neater and neater into a smaller box,
archived as the past.
Life once more is becoming a dot,
contracting in influence, time, and potential.
If this was all there was, how great a sadness and loss to hold in withering hands—
just beyond the dot of 3 score and 10 lies the expanding
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