The Age of Trump

I am 30.

I feel age, for the first time in my life. It’s been a gradual accumulation of feeling, but I have something tangible I can point to and wrap my hands around now. Age the feeling, the effects, the weight, the history, the wear. Age. The lines in my face. The receding brow line. The degradation of skin. Body hair changes, growing in other places, in different textures. You notice joints and muscles, and the “maturity” of these things. How they developed, how they’ve stopped developing in many cases, how they no longer rejuvenate themselves like they once did.

I woke this morning.

White. Male. 30.

Donald J. Trump is my president.

I’ve spoke at so much length with my close confidants already about the matter that there’s little more I can possibly conjure that would adequately capture the spiritual disappointment I feel, yet the same resolve and spirit to carry on in my individual pursuit of higher things, wisdom, understanding, community contribution, in whatever way I can squeeze it out of me.

Everything is bullshit.

Donald Trump solidified that for me.

Will to power.

I’m feeling alone, at 30. I have friends, but I long for that woman to see me age, and age with me.

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