Counting Grays
Over the past year, I’ve started counting grays; their presence stirs certain feelings and thoughts within me.
When I began counting grays, I thought I was doing it out of pure vanity. They bothered me, and I wanted to conceal the wear and tear on my body. I rejected the passage of time, but…
What if what I’m trying to hide is its meaning?
Grays carry the implicit message of experience and wisdom, but I, on the contrary, continue in search of the right path, of straightening lines, aligning myself with life, understanding my world, fitting into the world. I am still learning, far from feeling more experienced or wiser.
I keep counting grays as if they were a moving second hand. The more they appear, the more I feel the need to hurry, as if it were a race. I want to step on the accelerator, and I feel obligated not to make a mistake this time. I keep counting grays, and the seconds keep passing. I don’t want to fall behind. Each gray is a constant tick-tock telling me that there’s a place I should be, waiting for me, and I’m running late.
Although I continue counting grays, I am not accumulating achievements or wisdom. I am accumulating experiences, but I’m unsure if there’s real learning. I am not adding up.
I kept counting grays until I understood that I am no longer the same as before, neither on the outside nor the inside.
I was counting grays, and although I know I have many more now than a year ago, I don’t exactly know how many. I’ve grown accustomed to them and am beginning to appreciate them.
Perhaps they are not there to rush me but to remind me, not of my destination but of the journey. Perhaps they are not a reminder of where we should be but that we are.
I am no longer counting grays, although I am still adapting. I want to feel that my life deserves them, that there’s something in me represented by them, that I have progressed even if I am still in the same place.
