To each their own youth, it appears to me. I am sitting on the cusp of prematurely terminable youth as I wander through the next few years of my life. From here, all sides appear bright and nascent, even luminescent with the prospects of the next. To me, however, it seems that the evening has set in, and even though the pending night is abrupted with the plays of the red sun, everyone knows what is imminent.
Not that I have lost the capacity to meditate upon the ethos of this youthful age, but I seem to have lost its spirit. Each turn I come across, I witness the breaths of the youthful, the scents of their spirits, and the toss of their hair to the winds that are flowing south. Contrary to these pleasing emotions, I have rather gathered inertia as though pleading to the goddess to end this distress of contiguous movement. And, so as though my prayers have been answered, I have developed lines protecting the sides of my eyes and a droop that sits down where the skeleton once stood.
My thoughts have mellowed too, gathering their own deposit of wrinkles and freshly pasted modesty. Violence has been decimated to a corner and in its place, there is a white flower that too often is misconstrued as softness. This aspect of the gray maturity has set in or has risen now from the depths where it had laid hidden.
At times, when I open the old family albums and see a picture of myself as a baby, I see how old a soul had taken place inside the baby’s body. Even as it was growing, it was also decaying. What could be the cause of this? Can people with young forms carry an older soul? And, is it a sorrowful event or a cause to be astound about?
So, the apparent joys of the youth do not make sense to me. Nor does my breath smell of the spirits nor does my body shine spotless. But, come a tear to your eyes and I can hold you to my chest, easing your pain a little and rock you as a mother would her child that cannot sleep.
Older days beckon joys only to an old soul.