"Do not go gently into the night, rageragerage against the dying light!"
I do not rage against the end
I do not thrash against the bonds of my own skin
I. Am. Content.
My only fears being of the future,
For being there in the state of this,
And for the ever overlooming threat of not being there--
Did that make sense?
I'm afraid of him being angry or sad at me, at God, at the world for this straw I have drawn--
I use to draw beautiful things: I tell him.
I used to draw what my blurred eyes can barely see, I used to hold the pencil in steady hands that now shake and I would capture memories and create new ones--
I used to be an artist; I'll tell him.
Will he look at me and laugh, or will he look at me and feel pity that I am no longer one?
I fear that.
I fear not being the full extent of myself.
I fear...old age. They make it sound so serene, sitting and rocking in an old chair on your porch, with the wisdom of a full life spilling from your wrinkled lips...
But I see very little beauty in that.
Because they don't tell you that your bones creak and groan, and that your soul is ready to go...home.
They don't tell you the feeling of helplessness when your body gives away.
They don't tell you that not every elder is safe, some are thrown into nursing homes like crumpled tissues..
And some just waste away.
They don't tell you how most of your friends are dead, and how you take so many pills if you're not healthy.
I am already basking in my fear, because I am growing old too fast.
My joints scream and creak and moan and groan, my body attacking itself. My friends are dead and gone, I take pills upon pills, and I have wisdom inside that no one really wants to listen to.
I am so old, too young to be this old, really.
But I don't rage against this,
I don't bite at the hand that holds this plan out for me,
I don't complain or cry or hate anyone for it:
I. Am. Content.
