So called experts say that people become happier and more content as they progress into their fifties and sixties. I used to think that that was probably the case or at least I hoped that it would be. I needed it to be. It seemed just that there should be some slack water in life's last quartile. Some payback for putting the hopes and aspirations of the moment on the back burner. Some dividend for decades of long hours working at something you ultimately learnt to resent and even hate.
True the angsts of youth disappear or more accurately they are smothered by the weight of the subsequent decades of perturbation and inner questioning and that is a burden that doesn't disappear. It gets worse and with that knowledge each day heralds further dread, further fear, greater unhappiness. The head band of worry tightens, clouding ones brain and pressing into your forehead and cheekbones. It hurts. It pricks at the lacrimal glands. Oh that the door into tomorrow presaged an entry into light not greater darkness. A vane hope. Exercise used to help and I suppose it still does but one stitch doesn't close a five inch gash. Life is definitely a marathon, painful and tiring. I lean towards Macbeth's analysis.