Looking at my hands, I see that they have a sheen to them, like I observed on my grandparents hands. Closing my fist the matt skin returns for a moment, then laying my hand flat, the glistens on every crease of a million flexes return. In my many youthful worries, I never worried about this obvious outcome, of ageing. Yet now my body’s failure is suddenly inevitable. To many I am still young. To the kids I am ancient, I will most probably be dust when they see their hands start to shine.
Each day I wrestle with impermanence.
While he has me in a headlock I realise the stagnancy of permanence.
We shake hands and I walk away quite happy.
When you want for nothing,
when each breath is a joy,
what is ambition to you?
While sleeping, a dream arrives unwelcome. I am locked in a room alone, the door an ancient lump of solid oak with bars for a window. The walls are tall, grey and clammy, like the room is having night sweats. A metal bed sits against the wall, looking almost welcoming. There is barely any light left, all to do is to try to sleep. I lay on the bed facing the wall, immediately I get the feeling I am not alone, ice washes through me, my breath quickens, the visitor is right next to me, I can feel them yet not. Part of me wants to see who this is, the larger part is petrified, closer still then I feel a hand on my shoulder and wake up. My partner has woken me, “Are you ok? It looked like you were having a nightmare”. You added one hell of a chilling climax.
As age comes to tell you to slow down.