When we are young we are eternal. Standing arrow straight.

Sure of tomorrow and the day after, with conviction and a heavy metal energy we sang,

Like a true nature's child,
We were born, born to be wild.
We can climb so high,
I never wanna die.

Years later we nod knowingly as the same artist sings,

Everyone here knows your fear,
You're out of touch and you try too much.
Yesterday's glory won't help you today.
You oughta retire. Get out of the way.
I ain't got much time.
Young ones close behind.
I can't wait in line.

There is no good strategy for senescense.

"Of course there is." you reply. "Haven't you heard of retirement planning? Investing?"

Yes, it is true that having an adquate supply of money will soften the impact of senescence, but it will not slow it, nor will it prevent it.

As another artist of my era sang,

All your money won't another minute buy.

It's not just about money, though. There is an entire system in which we participate. We feed it. It feeds us.

We are born into a throbbing machine that nurtures us with the expectation that, when we mature, we will put our shoulder to the wheel and give our lives in productive pursuits. Most of us do. As if we have much real choice. We must eat. We must have a place to sleep. We long for companionship. We long for progeny. All these desires are purchased with blood.

And so we spend our lives trading our breath and bone for another day's food and lodging. If we have bound ourselves to another, we share of what we are and what we have. If we succeed in extending our bloodline, we willingly enslave ourselves to that future. Most of us do, at least.

And days go by. The unstoppable flow of our inspiration and aspiration. Our crimson river.

We begin to sense the decline long before others see. We feel the edge is dulled.

The grass was greener,
The light was brighter,
The taste was sweeter,
The nights of wonder.

We have learned so much, done so much, produced so much, provided so much. And now the children are coming into their own. The new bosses are younger than your children. They do not care about your past, they are making their own. They are building their own great store of what will be worthless reminiscence in only a brief few years.

But just like you, build it they must. They are in the cycle. They are part of the circle. The machine rolls on.

Work hard to build wealth. Retire to leisure. Leisure is wonderful when it is rare. It becomes boredom when it is all there is. More of the same.

"Live for today. Burn the candle at both ends," some say. Then, surprisingly, the end comes slowly, the burn becomes unbearable. Another sunrise becomes torture.

We were needed. We were useful. The day comes when we are the needy. Our usefulness has passed. We are someone's burden. If we are lucky, we loved enough to deserve the care of our children. Otherwise we're out of luck. "Money can't buy me love." Love, on the other hand, can bank away love for the future. It may well be your most valuable asset short of time itself.

Plan as you like. Scheme, work, scrimp and save, and if you're diligent you will get to live your last years with food and a bed. You will get to watch your friends all die, your children get old and loved ones suffer the pains that life seems to dole out freely.

No matter how you work it, there just is no good plan for senescence. You either die too young with some sense of energy and purpose, or you beat the odds and live well past the point of being able to care for yourself.

There is no good plan for senescence. And there is no uplifting, wonderful saving phraseology with which to end this contemplation. At the end of the thing, there is just . . . the end.

The end, then, has to be a thing that works. It is all there is.