Standstill

I have seen my history, though I use that term lightly.
Tread upon the grounds I once walked
and seen how I could have bettered them.
Hindsight grants me this, but also it has brought
me grief.
For though I have worked hard to grow and change,
by walking those familiar places I have found
that I am not far removed from where I started.
I see the same things in the cup of coffee at a cafe,
and feel the same things when I drink in a good
book, or when I make love to someone beautiful.
Age has changed me in ways that matter, but not
in ways I can measure easily.
It is the manner of getting older that vexes me most.
Whereas growing up we have found our minds
drawn to those things that are considered sacred,
I have found that none of these things proved to matter.
The first time I made love is important, but fails
when compared with the fiftieth time with the same
partner.
I have never killed willingly, but I have watched
a life pass.
But it is not the sight of a body that brings fear in me,
but instead the living persons around me who fail
to see me as I do.
I live as genuinely as I can, but age does not touch me
like I thought it would.
Instead, I find myself remembering constantly just
how intensely the past feels now,
and how little it counts.
In the moment, I am me and nothing else.
The sum total of everything
and nothing at all.