(no subject)
It's strange, I find, that over and over again the condition of mortality yields new perspectives on a universe I've carried with me like a well gnawed silicon teat since my metaphorical toddlerhood. Here, my adoring and long suffering public, is something to consider: What is the weight of time? Can one assign some physical value to it? How many tonnes does one accrue on one's sagging shoulders in a lifetime?
I only ask, darlings, because I have, of late (oh have I, of late) felt rather...how do I put it? (How do I take a page from your book...how do I tiptoe around the inevitable?) I've felt Old. As though New Time has finally homed in on this immortal wolf in lamb's skin and has dropped the preponderance of his dimpled arse onto my bent and harried back. I feel as though my living lifespan has been condensed into a year and, standing on the eleven month threshold, the engine's beginning to wheeze.
Not that my (when had I stopped thinking of it as the and started in with my?) body was out of sorts, mind you. Aside from a few scrapes...a few egg-sized welts left by dear Trevor's little pea shooter, it was in prime condition. Which didn't serve much to console me on this particular evening, as I stood on the beach at dusk and suddenly began to take one limb at a time out of my shirt and inspect it thoroughly, as though anticipating the meat to fall from my bones in sympathy for my muddy mood.
[ Anyone's welcome. But because he usually gets swamped, I'm gonna stick a five tag limit on this. If you miss out, don't worry: I plan on posting him again in September. ST/LT great, as always. ]
I only ask, darlings, because I have, of late (oh have I, of late) felt rather...how do I put it? (How do I take a page from your book...how do I tiptoe around the inevitable?) I've felt Old. As though New Time has finally homed in on this immortal wolf in lamb's skin and has dropped the preponderance of his dimpled arse onto my bent and harried back. I feel as though my living lifespan has been condensed into a year and, standing on the eleven month threshold, the engine's beginning to wheeze.
Not that my (when had I stopped thinking of it as the and started in with my?) body was out of sorts, mind you. Aside from a few scrapes...a few egg-sized welts left by dear Trevor's little pea shooter, it was in prime condition. Which didn't serve much to console me on this particular evening, as I stood on the beach at dusk and suddenly began to take one limb at a time out of my shirt and inspect it thoroughly, as though anticipating the meat to fall from my bones in sympathy for my muddy mood.
[ Anyone's welcome. But because he usually gets swamped, I'm gonna stick a five tag limit on this. If you miss out, don't worry: I plan on posting him again in September. ST/LT great, as always. ]