On getting old
Perhaps, getting old, you begin to smell sour on the inside first. Challenges are no longer exciting. You acquire a certain numbness to the injustice that had you enraged. Small, mundane things satisfy your hunger. You repeat yourself, again and again. You wear the ragged mantle of self-importance and feel defeated at the same time.
30 is not an old age at all. But I see my friends settling into a safer routine of familiarity. I wonder if I have become the same as well; if I have grown complacent and felt ever wise with clichéd phrases lifted off from self-help books. That I speak of the things that should have stayed veiled and refuse to speak of the things that bring fire to the world. That my mind would slowly ferment, letting the mediocrities and complacency fester like yeast.