Thots & prayers
It’s dreadful — having an idea. A guess. A heavy expectation of time. There’s a lot riding on this, fingers crossed.
For me, it’s the never really knowing when. The steadily decreasing state of being as your cells degrade over time, breaking down until becoming irreparable. The very matter that makes and equates to you —susceptible and frailer in minute ways.
Until it compounds and grows and evolves, multiplying exponentially.
Somehow it sneaks up on you like you haven’t seen yourself in years. A glance in the mirror one day becomes a jump scare. Is that me? Something is different.
It’s never besting yesterday. Your PR has already been set. You’ve peaked, and maybe you’ve plateaued. Hopefully you get to be there for a while, even in the mundane.
Today is the youngest you will ever be. This realization hits you one day and when it does, you’ll start looking back. Reminiscing until that’s all you can do. You can’t let it go. You’ve built it up to be this thing, this thing you hold in imaginary high regards. It was the best of times. But now, is this really you living it up?
The worry ebbs and flows. Some days you’re holding your breath, waiting. Coming up for air only when someone fires off a multitude of messages.
Those days when even bad news offers you a moment of relief. Bad, but not detrimental. I’ll take it.
The despair every time your phone rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and rings. I think of it as the modern day omen. The scene in that movie where a gun is shown in the desk drawer. A prelude of what’s to come, casually nudging you to put the pieces together. The failsafe sign something is ominous. Don’t look. Don’t look!
You’re only human, so you peak at the preview, but leave it unread. If you don’t see the words, then the reality - well it hasn’t happened yet. Not on your timeline. That’s how it works, right?
There’s a comfort in the denial and baby, comfort is where I thrive. I like it here. The numb vanilla existence.
Don’t worry, you’re not alone. We all know it’s happening. We see it everyday. The evidence found in our own faces, the lines a symbol of days marching on.
I do not believe in the magic, mystical good place, but it must be so deliciously warm and comforting to consider.
The comparison paints my reality into this black and white, nonfiction purgatory and the end, a fiery blank nothing. The stakes are null. Thoughts and prayers.
