Signs of Aging

What was it really like when I was growing up? Or did I ever grow up?

The music I listen to, the series I follow, the movies I watch, the books I read, the artists I stalk, the pages I browse, the places I admire, even the food I eat, might send a signal that I don’t really act my age.

I admit I don’t.

I am stuck somewhere in the dead of years that I suppose I haven’t gotten the most of the bliss of satisfaction. Or maybe my myriad of interests is not something that gets into satisfaction at all. How can one ever grow tired of sweet escape? Or life might just be another routine you put up with. I can’t handle that.

And so I cuddle into the same excitement of that of a five year old, the same thrill of that of a fourteen year old, the same high of that of a twenty one year old, whenever I claim the time I set aside for myself to time travel to anywhere but the decade and one reality aging has forced me into becoming, that I may be able to feel the age that I exactly want to feel.

Getting lost in another age stuck inside me somewhere has become an antidote to the decaying adult I become each day. I have nothing against growing all mature and old and wise, but being detached to the things that once had made you more alive and interesting and driven and wild and bold and exciting and happy and risky and free? I think that is suicide. Yes, I might as well hang myself to next string of sanity that is left in this very demanding world.

Others say it is a sign of dissatisfaction. I guess it is. But it is not the dissatisfaction that comes with the negative feeling of being unhappy with could-have-beens and would-have-beens. It is the kind of dissatisfaction of being extremely happy that you are not even second guessing that there would be more to the bliss than what you have had before. That kind of dissatisfaction. Because it is the ‘more’ that fuels you to hold on and move on at the same.

The truth is, we can never be the age we want to be. We can either let the years rotten us with all the bitterness we have against time we can not win over, or let the years rotten us with all the pleasure we can get with time, taking decay as a way of shedding off the bitterness.

We can only allow ourselves to feel how it’s like the age we want to feel if we choose to. And I am glad with the choices I make.

So let me be.


Author: Acey

I bleed coffee.

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