What becomes of all this when we can no longer take our days and use them as we once did? There was a time when this was our world and we could walk through it as if we owned it. Now we find ourselves out here, pushed further towards that edge that leads to the sheer drop, where we fall off and fall forever.
There are no heavens, not any more, to console us as we are edged more and more to the sides of things as the younger ones come and take our places, places that we thought were ours forever.
Then, though, we realise how little any of this matters, knowing that we turned away from this world long before it turned its face away from us. We knew back then that this was not really our world, that we had no real place in it. We saw it as little more than a stage where we acted out the public roles expected of us, while back here, amongst the green and living, we began to create our own world, built to our scale and meeting our needs, not shaping us into some role we did not really fit.
Now we know that we have a place out here, near the edges of the places those others will not go as they carry on with their tired dances, still thinking that this turning world belongs to them, while we sit here together, watching the sun go down and smiling.