It’s been nearly forty-five years since I was spawned. They pulled me out of a yawning, bloody hole in my mother’s stomach; she likely still has the scar. I suppose it’s time for a mid-life crisis or two. Maybe several, each a spectacular, fiery display of futility. All I’ve done in the way of rebellion so far is to grow a beard. It’s a scraggly thing, but I’m keeping it, because it puts people off.
I didn’t buy a Harley Davidson motorcycle, nor a hi-powered motorboat. I do have a red sports car, but its almost three decades old and it tried to kill me with unintended acceleration the last time I drove it, so there it sits, leaving oily puddles of various fluids on the garage floor.
Speaking of oily puddles of fluids, I haven’t diddled any nineteen year old tight-skinned tennis-skirt brunettes either, well not since I was nineteen or so. Unlike some, I know better than to go there now.
Women worry that they become less beautiful after bearing children, and after bearing the weight of life’s baggy-eyed angst for decades. They worry that men won’t find them attractive anymore. They worry that they don’t look like the nineteen year old tennis-skirt brunettes when they are forty, or fifty, or sixty, and they don’t, and that’s okay; they’ve overlooked the beauty found in depth of experience, and in wit. They’ve overlooked the beauty of compassion which comes, gifted, from time’s faceted diamonds of understanding. It’s a beauty seen in the eyes, and it’s in the heart.
Yes, some middle-aged men, in flailing pursuit of lost youth, will chase young tight-skinned things around, and maybe even catch one if they use the right lure, money usually. But once the sweaty sheets dry, and the pulse settles, they learn that, most times, there’s nothing to talk about; the chasm of experience is too wide to traverse, and when there is nothing to talk about, all there is left to do, is to listen to yourself die.
The clock ticks loudly, and slowly, brash as a guillotine blade falling between the wooden emptiness, drowning the hollow muffle of youth’s daydream banter in its pounding clicks and in its dread-filled pauses, each second, as spent, a lonely reminder of expiry’s nearing proximity, though it creeps without relent, as the slow hand moves ‘round.
A slightly older piece I found. I have writing left all over the place, some lost in the couch cushions, and some under the stove, alongside my lost marbles. I’m moving most of that worth saving to here. Don’t mind me.