It hurts. Twisted, gnarling, rooted pain that knows no age, no boundary
it envelopes into me, into others, and I see it reach out with a radiated hand
pain is so familiar. I have become desensitized to it. I only know it needs me
and that my corporeal and incorporeal existence beckons to it, like the foam
who beckons the sea. Siren-stricken, yet absence of seduction and mortal decay raises its footprints like some essential carbon copy. I note myself in the pains of growing older. Living something less than an ordinary life, nothing ‘special’: ambitiousness withers as age ascends and I am remembering youth in the past tense
these are the moments I feel as anachronistic as a VHS tape. It’s black-film blood writhing in the sepia tones of a cardinal polaroid. I know what polaroids are – I was not acquainted with them for long. Yet, their charm still rests in me. I am old. Not older than the trees and not as beautiful as them to age gracefully. What does my life offer to me? – Furthermore, what does my life offer to others? I have nothing to yield. A barrenness of bone and bile and brain – what is a person without the fecundity of a lineage? And, yet, here I am writing – in the late hours of the night. A new day glistening somewhere in the midst in the pooling night-incubator and full of such ripe promises. I have not looked at the day like this. I now can respect it more.
It means I am older. Maybe not wiser yet have some awareness. What is my life? I do not know. I only know the pain of a life filled with backstabings and unfulfilled longings, of desires who said farewell and eyes who could not mourn in proper. Of friends, no longer friends and now just memories. Passing them as though I pass ghosts in some sepulchre time. Of words that haunt me and dreams that are restful and demanding time of which I know not of, or have none. I do not know myself. I have hope. That is all I can have. Yesterday night, I dreamed of you, you have passed away and still left in me all of your numbered days, for me to live on.
Your vessel now in mine. I hope I was a good child. My adulthood you also saw a film of. I miss you. I hope I don’t disappoint you in your absence. Such charcoal nights make a chiaroscuro, an old type photograph, an impression of who I am. I feel antiquated. Yet not finished. Perhaps, this paradox of the late nights and early hours is what I can offer? Without insomnia and with some clarity I can perhaps offer a flesh of a dream. The certainty that all beings age and perhaps the grace in aging relies on carrying a life only you can live and no one else. That the footprint of you is only you. That despite the pain
in the morning if you are to wake you live. And, living requires labour that transmutes to love and love is a labouring, waking possession for even ghosts to crave. Loving my twisted, broken, half-eclipse of Self took a lifetime of loss, effort and charisma. I do not hate my reflection in the mirror. That is enough for now. Waking up and breathing is a joy. I have survived. I have lived. Perhaps that is the pain. The pain of knowing. The stars in my eyes are gone because I do not look at the sky from afar. I look at them from the near.
Everything is clear – the planets, the suns, the black holes, the pollutants and the rich materials of life. I am no longer dreaming. I am living. It is pain. Yet, it has pleasures. Perhaps, my life of dreams is not good enough for me and the pain means that I need to live wider than the stars in my eyes for they are grains now who pale in comparison to the cosmos who is me—
Art: Charles A. Csuri: Aging Process