Time, ever the mischievous trickster, ensures that wisdom arrives when we need it least and age comes when we need it least as well. Youth, drunk on the heady wine of inexperience, races ahead, convinced of its own infallibility, while age limps behind, clutching its hard-earned truths like pearls cast before the swine of our former selves. How cruelly ironic that by the time we learn how to live, most of life has been lived already!
The lament of many a wise old soul could well be captured in the words of Mark Twain: "Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen." But alas, the great dramaturgist of existence pens our script in reverse. We are handed the role of fool before we get the lines of the philosopher. The great paradox of wisdom is that it is a gift given too late to be of much use to the giver.
Imagine a young man at twenty-five, chest puffed with the arrogance of newfound adulthood, ready to conquer the world with his half-baked philosophies. He scoffs at the advice of elders, dismisses caution as cowardice, and confuses recklessness with courage. He is the protagonist of his own grand narrative, where he, and he alone, is the hero. He laughs at old men who speak of caution and prudence, forgetting that these same old men once laughed just as heartily, mistaking the wisdom of their predecessors for feeble ramblings. But time, that cruel schoolmaster, teaches through the whip rather than the whisper. And so, the young man grows, stumbles, falls, and by the time he gathers enough wisdom to guide himself properly, he is sixty, his knees creaking with the weight of experience.
It is not that youth lacks intelligence, nor that age necessarily bestows sagacity. Rather, wisdom demands experience, and experience demands time, and time, like a miserly moneylender, doles out its lessons only when the need for them has passed. The tragedy is not that we do not become wise, but that by the time we do, our wisdom is often of little use to ourselves. Like an umbrella that arrives after the storm, or the winning lottery ticket found in an old coat after the deadline has passed, our understanding of life crystallizes when most of its pressing questions have already been answered in the hardest way possible.
Consider the case of relationships. The young rush into love with the fervor of soldiers charging into battle, armed only with the flimsy armor of passion. They mistake infatuation for commitment, impulse for devotion. It is only in the autumn of life that they realize love is not a sprint but a marathon, requiring patience, endurance, and the willingness to pace oneself. But by then, the battlefield is littered with the wreckage of broken hearts and shattered dreams. "If I only knew then what I know now," sighs the old man, watching his grandson repeat his mistakes with the same foolish certainty he once possessed.
Finance is another domain where wisdom arrives as an uninvited guest long after the feast is over. A young man in his twenties, flush with his first salary, spends recklessly, convinced that wealth is an eternal spring, never pausing to consider the droughts ahead. The old man, weathered by financial misfortunes, understands the value of a saved penny but finds himself with fewer years left to enjoy its fruit. As the saying goes, "Too soon old, too late smart."
Even in matters of health, wisdom is a tardy physician. The body of youth, resilient and forgiving, is treated with reckless abandon. The stomach is a bottomless pit, the limbs tireless, the brain an ever-ready machine. Midnight feasts, sleepless nights, and sedentary indulgences seem inconsequential—until the fateful day when the body, long-suffering in silence, revolts. The young man, now aged and frail, finally appreciates the temple of the body, but the temple is already crumbling.
History itself is a testament to this paradox. Nations rise on the ambitions of the young and fall on the wisdom of the old. Leaders, full of untempered zeal, make reckless decisions in their youth, only to realize their folly in old age when their influence has waned. Napoleon, once a firebrand of military genius, spent his final days on a remote island, reflecting on the strategic errors of his youth.
Yet, if wisdom is such a tardy guest, is it entirely useless? Not quite. While the individual may lament its late arrival, society as a whole thrives on this cyclical inheritance. The wisdom of one generation, if heeded, can become the guiding light for the next. The old, even as they sigh over the ironies of life, serve as the lantern-bearers for those who will come after them, offering—if not a roadmap, then at least a compass.
It is said that an old man planting a tree under whose shade he will never sit is performing the highest act of wisdom. If we are to find solace in the lateness of our enlightenment, it is in the hope that the wisdom we gather, even if too late for ourselves, may illuminate the path for another. After all, every piece of wisdom we now possess was once someone else’s regret.
If you are young, heed this warning—not with the scorn of the ignorant but with the curiosity of the wise-in-the-making. If you are old, smile, for you are not alone in the bittersweet realization that wisdom and age are two estranged lovers, meeting only when the passion of life has already faded. And if you are somewhere in between, walk the path with an open heart, knowing that while age comes fast and wisdom comes late, laughter and a good story remain the eternal companions of those who learn to cherish both.