Half Life.

In my early adolescence (let's say 13-17), people frequently mistook me for being years older than I really was.  I remember, once when I was 15, I told a woman that I was a freshman, and her immediate thought was that I was a freshman in university.

At the time, I was right pleased.  I took it as a compliment to seem past the chaos of my youth.

And even now, I like it when people guess me as being a few years older.  Wise beyond my years or something of the like.

But sometimes... not so much.

Some days, I just feel downright old. But not in the "Oh man, another birthday, I'm so damn old," kind of feeling.

Some days, I feel... worn.

It's hard to put my finger on it exactly.  I see myself in the mirror, my flesh still pink, my face still bright, not a wrinkle to be found.  But my eyes stare back a moment, and they are dull.  My hands, weathered.  My body, bent, like something hangs about my shoulders, whispering secrets into my ear that eat away at me, piece by piece.

So I fight back, and I pretend to ignore it.  I keep myself busy, putting these hands to better use than dragging at my face, wondering if I frown too often.  There are bigger fish to fry, and anything is better than stagnation.  Anything is better than being useless.

And I continue on.  I continue to create.  The faint wrinkles give way to furrowed brows as I spend the hours, pricking my fingers with needles and thickening already fat calluses until I forget that I care that they exist in the first place.

But still, I cannot help but see the flow of time, and I feel myself decaying, one molecule at a time. And I wonder how it ever got to this.

 
Until the next.