We are our age. Always. We are every day of our age everyday. For a split second we are the youngest we’ll ever be. We see the future swallowing the now. The tip toed yawning of a thousand million seconds we’ve left behind, gagging for the next lot of piss and giggles, tears and tantrums, a bright gust of life.
Never been one for feeling my age. I look at people and think ‘fuck off, you’re not 46?’ They actually are 46. Looking like 60. I hate being asked ‘Guess how old I am?’. I can never guess ages. Tried once somewhere and nearly got glassed by an irate 35 year old. He was 24. I don’t think saying ‘you must have had a massive paper round’ helped either. I simply say ‘about my age’ if applicable or the more succinct ‘Don’t ask me to guess your age because I will proper insult you’.
Alongside age trots beauty. Sometimes struggling to keep up. Although in finite terms we all droop away in age, our beauty is still there. A layer or three down but still there. Like the detritus that makes up sand on a beach, little worn away wrinkles and brittle snowy bristles, a Testament to tenacity. Beauty is bone deep. Skin protects that lovey luscious light in shadows rife with warmth. All sneezy promises and backward glances. Take time to taste the tears and savour their depth.
What would you do if nothing happened? Nothing at all. Would you worry you were wrong? Or accept that if you stop it stops. Time does indeed March on. Trampling the days down and whisking sanity away. Steeping the twilight in a misty hue of you. Still you. Always you.
Age. Comes to us all. Imagine that every single second of your life was a photograph. Not just some boz eyed dad taking the same frame over and over again, but every thing you do or say as a photograph. That’s what age does and is; A convenient vessel in which to store your memories. Keep making them. Age will never get full.