There is no sadder or more wistful time than when beginning insidiously transitions into ending and the interval separating those two benchmarks evaporates into thin air as though said time never existed at all; once essential memories are no more and it’s like they were never even there. No bold pronouncement is made when this event happens; it’s an invisible bridge that you cross in the middle of the night sans clanging bells, blaring trumpets, and tickertape parades heralding your silent passage. Yet you can almost always viscerally sense when this ghostly segue occurs, little different than when you first become aware that the glue holding an erstwhile close relationship tightly together begins to dissolve. You subsequently feel waves of longing, sentimentality, and regret washing over your body while a melancholy mindset of finality gradually takes control over your sensibilities when you suddenly realize that the past is only an illusion and the future is a promissory note held by Someone far greater than yourself. And THAT, Dear Reader, is the day when bona fide wisdom found or will find you.
Fred's Soapbox 