(that sinking feeling)
I tried to be young again. I was barely recovering from a sinus cold when I went out on Friday night. I made it home late last night (Sunday) after a night out at a dance club, an after-party, bloody mary's all day at the pool of the Chateau Marmont, a failed attempt at an early night's sleep, awoken from near-sleep by another party in the hotel room, much heightened talk, barely more than chatter, the eventual dwindling attendance, late night chats, more wine, yet another failed attempt at sleep, then a full day at Disneyland, some of it also spent drinking (yes, it can be done), an hour-long search for a parked car that was only 20 yards from where I thought I had left it, the fatigued drive home.
Oh, I tried to be young again. I advise against it, youth, especially at this age.
The spirit was willing but now the spirit is cracked and leaking along the seams, the body will require weeks to recover, the strength to mend has abandoned me.
I exaggerate a little bit. My attempts at being young again were less than heroic. I merely needed a little running room to build up some speed, shed some past. Making the leap is never easy, but it doesn't help when your foot slips from the departing side. The slow motion descent as the arc of the jump heads low towards the opposing canyon wall, the one you had hoped to land with feet side down, perhaps having succeeded in a forward flip. Now even the lip is beyond reach, the collision with the approaching chasm wall is not what frightens you, it is the descent that immediately follows.
It is always the descent that follows. Only memory and dreams enjoy the luxury of falling in slow motion.
All else is just a trick of Hollywood.