Whoosh

I number among the small wounds of adulthood its purposelessness.  Your youth is a high-speed train ride, a terrifying hurtle through country you don't understand toward a destination of which you've only seen mock-ups, dioramas of what might be.   But in adulthood, you have arrived.

Inevitably, in the manner of destinations, it is not what you imagined.  But this is a secondary affront. 

The real loss is motion, the way the world rushed by, your sense of yourself on your way.