Blessed curse
It's the little things you notice; the skin over your knees seeming a little more loose, the lines in the crease of your elbow a little more pronounced, cheeks sagging a bit. The curse of getting old. You're so much wiser, but so much less respected. The back of your hand looks more like a desert while the back of your mind is more like an overstocked library. The elephant in the room is now the elephant on your frame. You're aging, cracking and breaking. With every sunrise, you're reminded that your life is an elongated hourglass, a robotic blade of grass breaking down in the wind. You're just a machine whose maker has already died and there is no one left to repair you. Welcome, child. This is your unimaginable fate. This is your life and if you are blessed with living this long, this is your curse.