What is age, but a number? Just something someone tells you to keep track of? If nobody told you your age, you’d have no idea how old you are. Age is hearsay. Age is a number, not an excuse, in just the same way that “I’m busy” is a valid excuse for being lazy. Age is not a competition. Aging is like managing your weight while on vacation; some do it better than others. Some obsess about it, some forget about it, and some don’t notice it until there’s no going back. Age is a number that can only be counted up, not counted down. You can act your age, or act someone else’s age. Age is a state of mind. Age is a reason to celebrate. Age is a reason to never wait. Age is something we share, can relate, and learn to live with day by day.
It’s been a while since I’ve rhymed.
I don’t know why, or what has sparked,
this need to can a moment’s time
and regimented meter in
a note-to-self; a bottle marked
“return to sender,” floated down
a river where the days begin
and end within the boundaries of
a winding predetermined path,
where by the night my note will drown,
an afterthought, a wing-clipped dove
consumed beneath the aftermath
of ebb and flow—of tides that stole
away with all my self-control.
We sat down and she asked what I wanted to talk about. I was confused and responded with nothing, everything, anything. Sometimes it’s nice just to sit together and listen . The things you can hear when nothing is spoken may give clarity to thoughts otherwise unawoken.