Story from 131005

writing story

published 1970-01-01 00:00

updated 1970-01-01 00:00

%date 131005 00:00

What a terrible thing it must be to be old. To truly reside within your body, know of the creaking fingers you can't oil, still constantly amused by your mind as it slowly chugs it's way on to it's eventual hault. Looking in the mirror, unable to comprehend how or when this change happened, or how it's no longer the reflection of who you are inside, who you really are. Looking at younger folk and no longer being able to understand their thought process, because it's been such a long time since you were there, but you were there once, long ago and I know you remember fragments of your past, stories that don't seem to be coherent any longer; just little sections of small paragraphs that fill large pages with blank verse. And yet, there never was such a feeling as knowing your grand child and watching them grow up, watching your own raised son or daughter teaching their sons and daughters as you taught them. Life is only short when you grow old and tired, for the rest of the while you've got so much more than what you will satisfy.