You hate us. You don’t even bother to hide it. You think that your thirty or forty years longer of living justifies that hatred directed at those you perceive as the embodiment of your generation’s failures. “Those reckless kids” who remind you of what it is to be young, what it is to have not given up. The homeless who make you so uncomfortable with your mortgage and complacency that you lash out with surprising viciousness, expressing that fear you have, the maybe-one-day inability to make that car payment, to buy that pair of shoes.
You are afraid. You are cowering in your towers of gold with your hands over your eyes, while we, born fools, bag your groceries and trim your trees while we dream and at the end of the day, pursue it.