experience.
The signs on a face. The number, of times, rejected, or otherwise. The number, of years, printed on a CV. The benchmark on which your fate is decided in the labor market. The scale on which society judges you. The time spent on doing something, purposeful, or, more often, potentially redundant. The name men gave to their mistakes, or a moment of frivolity, ecstasy, recklessness. The mode of thought that runs through the veins and arteries, dominating, or perhaps, resulting in, every funny motion of the body, the ridicule embedded in the spoken words. The distant memory that is stuck like a jammed cassette, relentlessly pumping feelings of pride, that shed away the sheer ignorance and disjointedness with the current time and space. The big white elephant that creates the unforgivable ego. The questionable being. Experience; what matters is not its possession, but what is done with it.