“Time is on our side.”

For a long time, this lyric felt true.

When you are young, time does seem generous. Not because you have more of it, but because everything is new. Proportionality explains it neatly. A year at fifty barely registers. A year at ten years old is ten percent of your life.

What has happened by the time you’re 20?

First ice cream. First day of school. First best friend. First kiss. First job. First car.

Then, after a while, life starts repeating itself.

Been there. Done that.

This is why more money eventually stops buying happiness. You can only own so much before ownership turns into storage. Possessions lose their shine because novelty has moved on.

There is a further extension to this idea.

You cannot take it with you.

And this is not just about death.

If you live long enough to enter an aged care facility, you are unlikely to arrive with your under-10 football boots. Or much of anything else that once mattered deeply. In time, even the symbols fade.

Eventually we all turn to dust. Boots included.

So how do we rationalise continuing to participate in a world that will one day continue without us.

The uncomfortable answer is this.

You were never meant to exist permanently.

You were meant to take part.

A small part.