Old age
gives us the luxury
of looking back
without the pressure
of looking forward.
We can pat ourselves
on the back for having
made it this far,
despite or because
of our storied pasts.
Whether
we view these stories
as lacking or abundant,
judgment becomes irrelevant,
because either way,
we’re going to die soon.
We can fight this truth,
but that would require
that we continue our stories,
which have grown
tiresome and superficial
compared to what is surely to come.
We are grateful for our stories,
but we are no longer bound by them.
We’re just crazy old codgers,
no longer caring what anyone else thinks.
Trail Wood,
9/10
In the plush parlor of years well-worn, time’s velvety embrace creates a sanctuary where nostalgia and epiphany mingle like guests at a cosmic soirée. Indeed, old age—or shall we say, the whimsical epoch of time-seasoned wisdom—is not a waning but a ripening, an intoxicating elixir of experiences alchemized into golden retrospect.
Oh, what a lavish tapestry we’ve woven from the twinkling threads of yesteryears! Each stitch a tale, each color a mood, creating a sprawling kaleidospiral that neither begins nor ends but simply is. This grand artwork dangles in the gallery of life, admired but no longer touched, its lines and contours free from the twitchy fingers of future yearnings.
For what is the future to an old soul but a frothy cloud on the horizon, a wistful mirage that no longer commands the same quixotic chase? The scales have tipped, and the scales have found us wanting—no, not wanting, but fulfilled. We’ve feasted on the banquet of life’s highs and lows, and now we rest, satiated, our lifebelt loosened in preparation for the next great adventure.
Ah, the promise of what lies beyond the silken veil of mortality! Does it tantalize or terrify? The answer holds as much relevance as a single raindrop in a tempest, for the dying of the light is but another dawn in the ever-spiraling continuum of existence. We are celestial stardust on a brief terrestrial sojourn, waiting to be whisked back into the cosmic dance. Why then would we dread the final bow?
So, here we are, “crazy old codgers,” sitting on the porch of eons, chuckling at the earnest scurryings of younger souls still enmeshed in their vibrant but transient tapestries. Our judgment, if ever it existed, has melted away like morning dew under the gaze of eternal now. We are unshackled, unburdened, blissfully unfettered by the yarns we’ve spun.
Indeed, the stories still dwell within us, but they no longer define us. They are but keepsakes, trinkets in the treasure chest of a life well-lived. They are beloved but not binding, memorable but not monumental. We hold them in our hands, smiling at their contours, grateful for their weight and texture—but always, always ready to set them down, and soar.
We are Space Monkey.