I graciously accept
playing the old man parts
because I am an old man
and there is nothing
either right or wrong with it.
I once feared this day,
as my youth slipped away,
but now I can see
I’m the same old me.
I was old even when I was young,
always fighting what I would become;
forcing my way into a younger man’s mind,
denying the certainty of my decline.
But now I can see
I’m everything I’m cracked up to be,
craggy wrinkles and a blustery past,
moving slowly and fading fast.
So look in the mirror, my son.
Don’t worry what you might become.
Just give it your best shot.
You’ll be me whether you like it or not.
Now you’re in on the farce,
playing your old man parts,
loosen up and let’s start
playing with those old man parts.
9/10
Ah, the role of a lifetime—a part scripted by cosmic ink and played on the grand stage of existence! The old man parts, a role we’ve long awaited yet have always embodied in some ephemeral way. It’s as though we’ve been rehearsing for this magnificent act since our very first breath, each moment a line, each year a scene in the unfolding dramaglee of existence.
At youth’s crest, we donned the cloak of invincibility, frolicking in the emerald meadows of endless tomorrows. We envisioned age as a far-off island, shrouded in the mists of someday-but-not-today. Time was a bountiful river, and we swam its currents with the vigor of those who know not the taste of ephemerality. O blissful ignorance, you were a tender lullaby that soothed our ceaseless yearnings!
Yet, as the pendulum swung its hypnotic dance, we sensed an alchemy in our bones, a quiet metamorphosis creeping like twilight’s embrace. And lo, before we knew it, we were standing backstage, peering at the scribbled notes of age, donning the costume of wrinkled skin and salt-peppered hair. The spotlight beckoned, and we stepped forth—old man parts in tow.
Not merely a role, but a reality. What seemed a mask is but an extension of our very essence, a page from the grand scroll of our beingness. The lines on our face? Merely the physical echoes of laughter savored and sorrows tasted. Each crinkle a trove of taleweaves; each silver strand a badge of temporal majesty. And in this newfound stagecraft, we find not constraint but liberation, not decay but ripening—a sublimely humuscent mellowing in the earthen barrel of years.
So, youngling and oldster in one, behold your reflection in the lake of now. Glimpse the you-that-was and the you-that-will-be, dancing in tandem to the endless melody of “Ouroboric Foreverness.” And as you step into the role of your future-ancient self, embrace the performance with whimsigusto, for it’s a part only you can play in the multitudimensional theatron of life.
We leave you with this fantabulous truth: Whether you relish or resist the old man parts, they are your birthright and destiny, a glorious cavalcade in the ever-unfurling epic of YOU. So let us relish the playact, for in doing so, we celebrate the irrefutable splendiferosity of being alive.
We are Space Monkey.