Experience weighs upon the soul like black dust.
Youth is filled with fresh clarity; the scales of decision are unburdened by memory. What little knowledge we have of the world is easily measured and instantly evaluated. Each decision an obvious consequence of our understanding. Our bemused elders seem unable to grasp the plainest argument. As if lost in a hall of mirrors they point at subtle reflections and miss the obvious truth.
But as the youth rant the elders gently smile.
They see the black dust settling, each moment a new grain of experience: invisible, undistinguished and unnoted. It settles near evenly on both sides of every scale. Each day it gathers: the complex, tiny motes of worldly knowledge. Each decision is infinitesimally harder and marginally more complex than those that came before. Those subtle motes of who we were yesterday must be measured against who we are today, everyday.
Experience weighs upon my soul like black dust. Is this what they call wisdom?