The attempt at serious writing in a new journal is not proceeding well. When I was young, flocks of serious thoughts flitted into (and out of) my conscious mind faster than I could hope to handle them. But now that I (an old man) have the leisure to examine them, not a single serious thought lingers long enough to be analyzed... not a thought that has not been tackled time and time again by both thinkers and writers of sizable celebrity.
Who am I?
I intend to persevere, but I realize, with some sadness, that it might take me a bit longer to get started than I expected. For I find myself, at an unexpectedly advanced age, treading cautiously on exceedingly friable ground.
easily crumbled or reduced to powder; crumbly: friable rock.
Life, it appears, is quite friable.
I would write ads for deodorants or labels for catsup bottles if I had to.
(From a 1967 Paris Review interview)