Not tonight, I’m tired. I’m just not going to do it. I’m the boss of me. It doesn’t matter what you say or what you think. I don’t care. You’re not the boss, I am.
What’s that you say? You want me to or you don’t fancy one way or another if I do it or if I don’t. You couldn’t care any less but if you could you wouldn’t.
Do what, you ask? Well, write, of course. What did you think I meant?
This is all you get whether you wanted anything or not because I’m just too tired. I worked all day and did a lot of shopping and got up late to start with — and now it’s time for lying down and sleeping or watching borrowed movies — besides which, I worked on several drafts that ended up in Nowheresville and I can barely hold my head up from all that heavy lifting.
Goodnight my friends and enemies. I’ll catch you on the morrow.
I’m not tired of being old. There’s magic in it — a chosen peace and quiet — an on-demand kind of living — no great expectations looming.
Oh sure, stiff bones aren’t always useful and they can come upon the owner unexpectedly and suddenly — evicting the more agile one without due notice as if it was her home all along.
Gray hair is lovely and the longer it gets the easier it is to pull up in a pony tail and get it off the face where it can be a nuisance — also saving beauty-making money for things more like honey to the soul — trees instead of hair dye or hair cuts.
I think I’ll be tired of not being able to get any older. That idea isn’t appealing at all and — it isn’t a good idea to fall, so more care should be taken when you are no longer feeling quite so bold.
Yes, young people look so plush and fine while they’re in their prime. They don’t know yet that everyone goes gray someday, down the line that seems so far away. They need to be told to save their memories, and their minds, as they go along because they can be young forever if they choose — in their minds — when they do get old.
The treasure trove of life’s experience is cause for marveling — even if there is no one to tell.
I didn’t get to be a singer with bright lights and awards and clapping. I didn’t want to. But I still sing and I sing real pretty in my mind and I clap.
As I sit in the sun and feel the breeze and watch the ants and birds and cats, I praise the space of time that brought me to be able just to be — and savor every quantum segment — dreading, dreading, dreading my ultimate quitting this particular space in time.
The young don’t know that kind of savoring. But they will, in their time, when they too have passed their sweet, young prime.