Get Down to Brass Tacks
Just a short quip.
Not much time before I have to leave. I don't want to go today. I want to sleep. The fire under my butt went out... or is dimmed anyway. I feel lazy. I feel unmotivated. I feel secluded. I feel defeated. I feel lost. I feel remote. I feel old.
Speaking of this-- old. I see aging. I look down at my hands as they lay gracefully along the keyboard, and as they flit from letter to letter, announcing my thoughts-- and I see age. Creases, wrinkles, lines, pleats, crinkles, time and history. I recognize them on my face- on my furrowed brow, along my smile, tracing age from my eyes. I never thought I'd be concerned with this-- well, not never but not at my age. Just barely into thirties. Yet, it is there, and often I look down at my aging hands and am reminded of my mortality. That time continues on faster and faster, and each day I age a little more... and what I have I done with these thirty (one) years? Who am I? Where am I going? What have I done?
I worry these lines make me less beautiful. That with these creases I am less valuable. Within each wrinkle, I am more disposable.
Obnoxious really to think this way. I have always been a big proponent on natural beauty- beauty within, and brains make a package more than the wrapping. But, I find myself here. Ashamed at these marks. These wounds of time.
If I had none- then I would feel like there was more time.
Not much time before I have to leave. I don't want to go today. I want to sleep. The fire under my butt went out... or is dimmed anyway. I feel lazy. I feel unmotivated. I feel secluded. I feel defeated. I feel lost. I feel remote. I feel old.
Speaking of this-- old. I see aging. I look down at my hands as they lay gracefully along the keyboard, and as they flit from letter to letter, announcing my thoughts-- and I see age. Creases, wrinkles, lines, pleats, crinkles, time and history. I recognize them on my face- on my furrowed brow, along my smile, tracing age from my eyes. I never thought I'd be concerned with this-- well, not never but not at my age. Just barely into thirties. Yet, it is there, and often I look down at my aging hands and am reminded of my mortality. That time continues on faster and faster, and each day I age a little more... and what I have I done with these thirty (one) years? Who am I? Where am I going? What have I done?
I worry these lines make me less beautiful. That with these creases I am less valuable. Within each wrinkle, I am more disposable.
Obnoxious really to think this way. I have always been a big proponent on natural beauty- beauty within, and brains make a package more than the wrapping. But, I find myself here. Ashamed at these marks. These wounds of time.
If I had none- then I would feel like there was more time.
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