Why is life measured in years and not living?
Long years and truly life, uncorrelated
Age and wealth, mere numbers, not significance
Whereas transcendence and becoming is

The old was yesterday, the new reborn daily
More than the sum of all you were, and more
Every day a new world, walked with new eyes
With ancient soul, and even more ancient spirit

Seeing from the end to the beginning, and beyond
Insatiable but there is yet sleep, and tomorrow
Today, a life fully lived, and ancient evermore aged
Eternal life beckons, and tomorrow We walk, again

And We walk not alone, but as One
The unseen truly real not that seen

He looks so small now
The man who used to tower over me
Broad shoulders
Strong body
A mountain climber
Who walked through Europe in his youth

He was the strongest man I knew
The one who took me on adventures
Biking to the forest
Climbing ancient ruins
A world of knowledge
Collected through a life displayed on his shelves

Now he looks so small
Like I can pick him up
And carry him in a box
Barely even there
Vacant behind the eyes
Trapped in his own mind

This giant of a man
Made fragile by age

I find myself existing above where everything else is.
I do see the cars gliding in heavy rain, painting me with white Hollywood flashes but I could confidently argue that they wouldn't cast a shadow behind myself. I find myself existing outside of my body and away from everything I can see in some muted soft space in between.

I wonder if it is because I turn everything into symbols or is it because I am 26 and just trying to feel different. To feel smarter or better or kinder. Is that the goal of all this? There is space between everything I touch and no ability to feel the jagged edges or cold surfaces underneath my fingertips. A numbing that would drive me insane if I wasn't so bloated and churning with random thoughts; some good, some bad. Nothing specific.

I lay on the sofa and notice the moon reflected in the large windows. Two moons, a nice distance apart and somehow the same size and light. The only thing that tells me that one moon is a reflection is some guttural instinct. A discernment. I would love to say they emulated the eyes of a cunning cat or some other great power instead, but they looked blank. But they looked at me.

I feel myself reaching the end of this current mind shift. The one where everything has a meaning or everything is connected. I wonder if it has actually poisoned how I see things but I understand it is a natural progression. Instead I am moving towards the prophecies that things just happen. People can say things without meaning, things can exist without history. Pretty existential and less poetic. It should be less freeing but at the moment it feels more non-sensical and there is less music in everything. Ironic that I should find bliss in less blissful things and I wonder if that is an excuse. My next thing should be to write something beautiful.

To fashion something that is delicate with an expanding and deflating tidal force behind it so strong you could feel it in the muscles of your tongue. Or how the knocking on the door in the night pokes crashes of adrenaline into the top of your chest and contracts your torso with sickly electric, charging your muscles to move and how we are in all fact some weird victim to this wet newspaper slurry and sewage mosaic of stone greys and denim blues all coming together as one when you shake your head but leave your eyes open. And we are just trying and trying to swallow what things happen to us and around us all the time

In honor of getting older,
wiser, sillier and bolder -
I have decided to take the shackles off.
They keep me safe, but curse me soft.
As my life has flashed before my eyes,
Suddenly, I have come to realize -
   I haven’t lived enough
      I haven’t loved enough
         I haven’t danced,
            nor laughed hard enough.

Am I too young to miss the past
Am I too old to enjoy the rain
Too young to notice the change
Too old to be immature

Or maybe too young to think when to blink
in fear I’ll miss the bliss if I stop to think

Or maybe age isn’t real
Just there to control when we do what

When we should be embarrassed to cry,
or when to start to live our lives,
and with a blink of an eye
you’re caught barely alive,
wore out from existence of time

The muscle cars have aged out
of high school hamburger stands
and live in landfills
or junkyards

but some survive.
The codger across the street in the end house
keeps his in pristine condition,
replacing its parts, babying its body

in ways he can't do for himself.
I see him rolling out down the street,
into youth,
joy,
music,
health,

until he rounds the corner
and disappears.

If I must boast, I will boast
of the things that show my weakness.
I will flaunt my gammy knee
and its ability to forecast a heavy early mist.

I will brag of my swollen ankles
as examples of my tendency to slow and amble,
perhaps presenting this as a sign of maturity,
rather than my inability to hurry as I used to.

I will showcase my leg brace
as perhaps a sign of my Maker's kindness,
gifting me a thorn, lest I boast
in one of the great many talents
entrusted to me against His return.

I will display (with no little pride)
a profile characterised by a receding hair line
and a stoop suggesting the weight of decades,
letting the eye of the beholder perhaps assume
wisdom commensurate with my years.

If I must boast, and I surely should,
I will boast of the things acquired by age
and glory in these weaknesses
that cast me more fully on God’s good graces.

If I must boast, I will boast
in my God’s long faithfulness.

Twelve to fourteen
       A good girl she must be,                 🦋
               but with the exception
                     of fake notes
                          to skip P.E
                              Her nose buried in books,
                                sitting in the nook
                                of her mind,
🦋                       still dazzled by magic,
                         adventure
                     and love
                A soirée
           with the feykind.....🦋

your body will
wrinkle and shrivel
crack and deform itself
into a tapestry of frailty and age

what then, will you have?
your best feature taken away from you
no more wages paid - nobody wants elders

weep bitterly, for your life will speak for itself
a life of virtual prostitution, and for what?
notoriety? money? what for?

at the end of the day, you’ll have the light
a beacon of hope that guided you through
listen for it, and it’s still small voice