The Age We Almost Feel

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From the Desk of Lord Northwood

July 14th, An elegy for the version of myself I thought I’d have more time to become.

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The other day, I glanced upon my own reflection. It wasn’t the face that unsettled me, but the subtle presence of time, etched where light used to linger.

I am, quite suddenly, no longer young. Not old, no — not yet — but nearer to thirty than I ever imagined being, and not entirely sure how I got here.

Mortality used to be a concept. Lately, it’s a presence. A quiet one, perhaps, but constant.

I look at the faces around me — friends who have seen me collapse and become, who feel like home in a world spinning far too fast — and I cherish them more deeply than I know how to say. But even that love is laced with panic. The fear of time passing, of moments slipping through fingers, of not holding on tightly enough.

And sometimes I worry that not everyone sees it the same. That some don’t understand — not really — and I fear I’ll sound dramatic or indulgent if I try to explain the grief of simply existing.

But I also fear those who understand far too well. I imagine they look at me with a quiet pity, sensing how much I ache, and how tightly I hold onto moments that were never meant to last. And yet, I know they worry I see them the same way. We’re all just mirrors — reflecting, projecting, and pretending we’re fine.

The truth is, we’re all trying; quietly, frantically, and often without saying a word. We want to matter. We want to feel seen. We want comfort in a world where comfort can’t last.

I don’t know how to slow it down. I don’t know how to stop fearing what’s ahead.But I do know this:

If I must age, let it be among those who don’t mind the trembling. Let it be with those who make it feel less like decay — and more like unfolding. Faithfully, Lord Nicholas Northwood