42
Prose-poetry
I’m at the age when I should have my shit together, yet I’m still standing on shaky ground. As I inch towards the hill of middle age the world stands equally promising and disheartening. I’m realizing all the nonsense around me while striving to make sense of this world. I’ve concluded the world is as meaningful as it is pointless.
I’m at the point where I have more hope in meeting fake love than realising true love. I walk every day on a road laden with deep intent as well as uncontrollable forces. It leaves a bittersweet feeling in my mouth. 42 is a peculiar age to be. I’m old young and young old. The young already erase my worth from their vistas, whilst the old are still envious of my youth. How can I be both old and young at the same time? Isn’t that a sorry state to be?
42 invites me to walk gracefully into old age, whilst harbouring a wandering teenager within me. It’s a funny place where I find myself. With each passing birthday, the light and fluffy birthday wishes with the cosy corners sharpen around the edges with distasteful jokes about getting old.
I have the common sense now not to want my imperfect body to be perfect as I did in my younger years. Instead, I want my imperfect body to be functional. With health becoming more important than being sexy with each passing year.
42 is an age where I know myself so well that I won’t allow anyone to rock my world, I’m also still learning that my world is ever rocky.
Like I said before, 42 is a peculiar place to be.
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