By twenty-nine, a man should begin to keep some significant record of his history; a fundamental requirement is only a basic understanding of his personal historical context. To see the cycles in humanity and see him or herself rolled in one and a few. It is possible that women may write these sooner and there will always certainly be those that attain this kind of necessity earlier on in their lives.
Music is very important to this endeavor, as well as instructions going forward. One must, and almost naturally does--as necessity is the mother of invention--to synthesize what they hear and read, what they know, and first begin by questioning inquisitively after their own knowledge's foundations. The giants whose shoulders we precariously balance upon; and our giants have their own giants--who do they stand on? So on, and so on till life begins birthing the prefrontal cortex more earnestly. This is why this kind of writing could perhaps be done sooner by women, and major experiences for them, like periods, come sooner than male's passages, which almost require young women and older men; the former for an understanding of one's sexuality, and the latter to help guide that sexuality to positive expressions that enhance manhood and self-worth in the young man. The opposite players play for women, young men and older women; both assigned to similar roles for women. The difference is the relationship being made with the body at such a young age and it's practical importance since memories reside partially in the nooks and crannies of our neurological system.
There is something beautiful in the teenage pang, where one doesn't eat or sleep and all thoughts go through the same drain that has the name and face of the most perfect partner the world could ever serve up. Real love, I think, is a bit more practical than that, however it retains some of the former charm that sparky teenage love provides. It is a lower rumbling flame, but a more sustainable one, that gets hotter with time. Without the sparks however, the rumbling flame and ever-warming coals would have no beginning. It is required, and it is important. My goodness how much magnificent life I felt wasted on those manifold teenage loves. Yet it was important, it helps give perspective; I'm young enough to guess that this perspective is perhaps useful, but still too young in intimate experience to see if this matters practically in adulthood.
At thirty, my own theory goes, we inherit the world; at seventy, we are asked to give it up. Before the former, they call us too young--and after the latter, they call us senile, and say the world is no longer the one we knew. It's only half true; the colors have changed, the canvas is the same, and all that we are all painting is a mere dash that is fated to dissolve into a nearly invisible point on an eternal line--only God's eye to ever perceive it.
Music is very important to this endeavor, as well as instructions going forward. One must, and almost naturally does--as necessity is the mother of invention--to synthesize what they hear and read, what they know, and first begin by questioning inquisitively after their own knowledge's foundations. The giants whose shoulders we precariously balance upon; and our giants have their own giants--who do they stand on? So on, and so on till life begins birthing the prefrontal cortex more earnestly. This is why this kind of writing could perhaps be done sooner by women, and major experiences for them, like periods, come sooner than male's passages, which almost require young women and older men; the former for an understanding of one's sexuality, and the latter to help guide that sexuality to positive expressions that enhance manhood and self-worth in the young man. The opposite players play for women, young men and older women; both assigned to similar roles for women. The difference is the relationship being made with the body at such a young age and it's practical importance since memories reside partially in the nooks and crannies of our neurological system.
At thirty, my own theory goes, we inherit the world; at seventy, we are asked to give it up. Before the former, they call us too young--and after the latter, they call us senile, and say the world is no longer the one we knew. It's only half true; the colors have changed, the canvas is the same, and all that we are all painting is a mere dash that is fated to dissolve into a nearly invisible point on an eternal line--only God's eye to ever perceive it.
Or maybe it's all just written on our foreheads.
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