We do our silly little jobs, run our silly little errands, live our silly little lives. When does it end? Aflame, grinding away till all that remains is ash at our feet. I should quit my job and file for unemployment. Might as well enjoy the twenty-odd years we may or may not have left.
Two decades, science recently corrected itself. Forty-one years old. Not a bad age to die. In a way, it’s what I’ve always envisioned. Fifty years old has always felt out of the question. But forty, that’s attainable. By forty, I can’t imagine I’ll have anything left to give. I’m sure I’ll be counting down the days by thirty-five. Might as well wait it out though, see how everything wraps itself up. You can’t miss the series finale of Earth, after all that! Plot twists, drama, war, oh my!
I spent my youth being old — reclusive, solitary, filling my time with books and yarn and cats — and I always thought, like everyone always said, I’d regret not drinking, partying, fucking more. Rather, I’m grateful for my time spent in stillness, for I am living my life in reverse. I grow younger every day, in habit and in attitude. I am invincible, I have no fears. The wisdom of age that it seems, I was cursed with at birth, flakes off bit by bit, day by day in the form of cares and worries. By thirty, I’ll be fully jovial and naive. I’ll say what’s on my mind and have no concerns about the thoughts of me that live in the minds of others. Oh, how I can’t wait to grow old, and to be young for the very first time.
