You used to be children; why is this worse? Why at seventeen or eighteen did your pain seem somehow lesser, or at least easier to bear, than at thirty or forty? I suppose the years lend weight, both those that have passed and those yet to come. Maybe at eighteen a brighter future still seemed possible, while at forty it’s clear there isn’t much time left, nor the will or strength to use it wisely. Maybe despite all the shit you took as teenagers, there was always the expectation that you would rise above it, when, seeing the broken men you become, it’s obvious you didn’t. That you never do. Kids have futures, adults have presents. Maybe that’s why it hurts more now; I know how doomed you are.

None of us are children anymore, are we?