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30: Half An Hour Into Age:
30: Half An Hour Into Age:
30 Years: Half An Hour Into Age:
I lazily finger the corner of my eye, an imploring search masquerading, pretending, the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing pretence, at carelessness. A half arsed concern, is that a wrinkle? The listless light spews pallid radiance as I duck and weave for a better look at the capricious inverted self, teasing me in the mirror. The touch is misleading, scanning the springy vital skin like a bloodhound, scratching away the soil of sleep, turning up inconclusive findings, either the beginning of a wrinkle, or the crease of the eyelid… further investigation is warranted!
To the knee jerk heart, a wrinkle is a submission, a minuscule buckle in the integrity of a once youthful façade. But logical mind can put spin on anything, especially after having been around for a few decades. This wrinkle is a medal, first memento to honour a hurdle cleared, they will only grow thicker, faster and higher from here on out.
It’s the genesis of a long, sometimes unpalatable trade off, one you have no conscious intention or awareness of bargaining in. A slow trickle, threatening to become an avalanche should one ignore to place a cautionary bucket under drips of attrition, wear and tear, decline. A teasing cross fade from one act to another, where reliance on the body starts to wear away and the body begins to rely on you. Some say the body is a temple, but the brain has to be altar, what else will you implore when it all begins to go south? Who will await the denouement?
Later on I retreat to the shore, the immutable reliance of nature sooths the soul, the sea is the true constant, steady inhalation/exhalation of ebb and flow. I watch the waters interweave with the grains of sand, bursting aromas of salty pollen in the nose. Eyes drift between the lament of the sea and the melodrama of the sky, which is always a contradiction in terms. Mimicking water’s permanence, but ephemeral like teenage moods, a painful yet perhaps poignant reminder that constancy changes, variation stays the same.
As I look into the agitated roiling mechanisms of the grey cloud, iron certainty of the future, a pareidolia of my own confused muscles, conveying the knot in the stomach as awareness of going over the slope has begun, churning as the kinetic drop increases virulence towards the inevitable.
But you want to hear about benefit, right?
Time heals all wounds they say, youth is wasted on the young is another that is flung around with aplomb, like the arms of an amusement ride in the nearby theme park, their screams emulating the constant “what ifs” lurching around in your mind, an annoying drunkard at a party. Insight comes on a gentle breeze and innocuous lap of a wave, the damp of imminent caresses reassurance into that skin which so irked me earlier. Like nature, maturity carries a gentle acceptance of change, of weathering the storm, of knowing the difference.
I head home, for some time to think, youth is the hare, experience is the tortoise, youth light, experience sound, resonating in an echoing cavern, debating what’s next. It is the right time for placing elements into position, your life receding into an egg and spoon race but a chessboard, a careful arrangement and positioning of vital pieces to move forward, implementing life as you know it.
© Brad James, 2014.