Aging

Regret is the injury of nostalgia, as we reclaim our identities by the passing years, and forget where we came from, and what we used to believe in. Our current passions override the old, and it’s easy to disregard the desires of your previous versions. Age threatens to erase our ghosts into invisibility. How easy do we make it to forget everything? I have learned to forgive myself for the things I have done, if only to recognize that in that moment, it was what I truly truly wanted. Or else, it was the only option I could take. Experience has made me weary, and my bones threaten to break as they shake, while I wait for wisdom to take over me. But wisdom doesn’t take on the mirage of age, but rather envelopes itself in the pull of children’s thoughts. I thought my refinement made me better, as I put more footprints on the earth. Yet, true evocation found me when I was barely passed five, and still too worldly to be fearful of the dark. The mirror stage is what we yearn for in all of our endeavors; we ache to return through our hallucinations, through our art, through our spirituality, to the unity between us and the ground we touch. We have learned the hierarchy of the body, and nothing has been quite the same since then. And in that order, our memories rule in forthright, and so we return to the viciousity that lives in spinning in circles. Time elapses and relapses, but in the end, it’s my bones who collapse.