The boring lesson goes on and my tired eyes shift into looking somewhere else besides the cleaned-too-many-times-board-it’s-not-making-a-difference-anymore. Splattered with wiped out zeros over zeros over exclamation points and hard underlining words that we should write in Red, he says, in RED PLEASE IT’S VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU KNOW THE DIFFERENCE.
I can hardly see the damn board, and to be honest I don’t want to anymore. I don’t know why I always get stuck in classrooms behind extremely tall human beings with wild hair. Look at that hair! Wait. What’s that?
I see it.
“What the hell is it though?”
Isn’t it obvious?
“No it can’t be.”
A conversation between myself and I isn’t enough distraction to cast me away from the obvious elephant in the room. That sneaky white hair, how did it manage to slip into such beautiful locks? Snuck right into hers like harsh truth.
I remember I used to make little promises with God for what seemed to be a fairly good deal.
I would say, “DO GOOD THINGS EVERYDAY!”
“I SHAAAAAAAL!” at the top of my lungs
“BE A GOOD PERSON!”
I could hear my mom giggling behind my door, and I would whisper.
“just please let me be immortal”.
Yeah I liked the whole vampire feel I would get while watching TV, although it seemed different from my reality.
Truth is I don’t like aging. I don’t think anyone does really. The “temporary” feel about us is very unsettling to me. We make promises to ourselves; to become better people, make better choices, live a better life, and create a better future for our own future selves while our future isn’t even promised. Some of us want to leave a certain mark or stamp here and there, where a lot of scars have already been made. Sometimes I get days where my inner revolutionary person wants to rise up in plain morning, and other times I just want to get on with my day. It strikes me sometimes late at night (as the clichés go), that all I am building up right now, that is taking me so many hours of determination would someday lead to people not even acknowledging the fact that I existed at some point. I could scream now but later on I would not hear my own voice anymore, buried under whatever grounds covering my body, slowly getting colder, what a sickening description of the worst to come.
Should the success in our lives be equivalent to our names being widely known and spread out across countries, always at the tip of people’s tongues? It depends. It always depends on what each of us call success. It might be making it on the Nobel Prize list, or merely being satisfied and happy with your everyday encounters.
But we all have an end, and that is the undeniably harsh truth. Some people will never read this, others won’t understand it, and wouldn’t want to. In fact there are so many people in such a big world it’s getting easier to feel the tiny speck that is you, and what your life means to you. Why was I born, is a question often repeated, always trying to find itself an answer, trying to find ourselves and our talents and the love of our lives and all that baggage that comes with living in a society, but why should I die? My thoughts on aging follow each other on the same long straight road towards the same end. Ironically enough the only thing that comes with age, other than wrinkles, is wisdom. Yeah apparently we now know we have to put our children’s needs before ours, we start really taking care of our elders, not just the “clean the table hunny please” type of help. We start understanding more complicated relations and start following the news casted on that same channel we used to tell our parents to change the second that man with the same blue tie starts talking. We start being aware, figuring out the solutions to problems and not caring if it takes PAGE-LONG essays to explain, yet still not figuring out, why our lives should be taken away someday, why our hair is slowly turning into another color, not the one we used to see in our photo albums. Why grandma’s hands only get harder to touch and why she wont accept to look at herself in the mirror before leaving the house, only knowing that she used to admire her façade every chance she got, “back then”.
I guess, and I am only just guessing, that people tend to cope with what they have. With everything they have, including the big “END”. Here is where wisdom comes in, teaching you to CALM THE FUCK DOWN when you realize that the word teen will be leaving your age group soon. I remember how much it shocked me, to hear my grandmother actually making me believe she was on the same page with her situation, she didn’t mind it, and I still don’t understand how she could still smile after seeing herself become “what was” herself and “how was” her hair and “how incredibly sweet were” her friends back in school. I guess she had a successful life in her point of view, it seemed to show in her eyes rather than her smile, almost a little too forced. The good finally overcame all the difficult mornings, she stills goes on with this motto to this day, but I still know when I see that little white hair in my reflection, I will be in for an emotional morning.