The Weight of Time (What Time Does to a Man)
Getting Older Isn’t Just About Age. It’s About Accumulation.
One of the many things they don’t tell you about getting older is how much time weighs on you.
Not just time, but TIME.
The accumulation of years. What it does to your psyche, to who you are as a person.
And the funny thing is, the weight doesn’t come all at once. It creeps.
It sneaks in little by little.
And you don’t even realize it’s there until one day, you do.
And by then, it’s already too late.
Because you can’t know you’ve arrived at There until you’ve already passed it.
It’s not just the memories that stack up.
It’s the mistakes. The regrets. The things you said and can’t take back.
The things you should’ve said and didn’t.
The things you did, but shouldn’t have.
The things you didn’t do, but wish you had.
The people you hurt. The people who hurt you.
It all collects inside you.
Just… hangs around in your mind.
And the longer you live, the heavier it gets not just in the past, but in your present.
It starts shaping how you respond to life before it even happens.
A quiet hesitation. A reflexive doubt. A tempered boldness.
Second—and third—thoughts.
Time doesn’t just shape your memories.
It shapes your reflexes.
And it doesn’t ask for permission.
Time also dilutes.
The songs that once cracked your heart wide open?
They don’t hit the same way.
The movies that used to light you up?
They still flicker—but the brightness has dimmed.
Books. Albums. Old jokes. Favorite quotes. Foods you used to crave.
Still there. But thinner. Quieter.
Faded under the weight of repetition and the sheer number of new memories stacked on top of the old.
When we’re young, it’s easy to move.
To leap.
Nothing holds us back. Nothing binds us.
Just the wide openness of being young and unfettered.
But the older you get, the more time throws its weight around.
It crouches behind you like the meanest little gremlin and whispers with that gravely voice:
You really want to start over again?
At your age?
Wouldn’t it be easier to just stay where you are?
Wouldn’t you rather just watch TV?
And most nights?
The answer is yes.
There’s not much you can do with all that weight.
It’s there. A gift from life.
A gift—or maybe a curse.
Either way, it’s baggage.
No wheels.
Frayed, worn handle.
Still yours to carry.
The best you can do is acknowledge it, and still be bold, anyway.
At worst, you wallow beneath it, lulled into complacency by the glow of a thousand screens.
But some nights…
some nights—
I turn the TV off
And tell the gremlin to kindly fuck off