the discomfort of aging. there’s the saggy skin, the furrows & lines, the forgotten names of even the closest of friends, the sudden deaths of acquaintances (“so young, too soon!” you cry,) the lost keys, the misplaced bag, the unbidden reminder of your salad days, the waste of youth. a body in revolt, its masses congregating in the squares & plazas of your internal organs, disrupting the status quo (an autocracy ruling over microbes, cells, blood, guts,) journalists jailed (hijacking your reason, “oh, it’s nothing, it’ll pass,”) when all of the signs point to regime change.
but steadfast you stand, implacable in the narrow confines of your skin; your brain producing excuses (funding a counter-insurgency,) just so that you may hold onto your riches (the past) just a little bit longer (“i’ve worked so hard to be here, now, it’s my time, mine, mine, mine,” in a lisp of spit & anger as you stand in the gilded opulence of your palace, the body that once housed such promise.) your stalwart aides murmuring advice, cajoling, & suggesting that perhaps some change would be good, “it would be good for you to grant some freedoms, to acquiesce to select demands,” the body politic requires your benevolence & understanding.
relent, it won’t be a failure, instead it will be a triumph of reason over your gut.