Age is just a number, they say.
Maybe they are right, it’s an arbitrary measure of how long you have lived chronologically. But only if life could be lived in the simple timelines that come ahead. Some days I am 10 years behind, like a kid that I always am. Some days I function like an adult, apt for the time. Some other days I am a toddler, whose insatiable demands leave me heart broken. Some other days I am a philosopher trying her tiny hands at solving problems that may appear 10 years from now.
It does seem age is just a number. Like a river that splits into tributaries that visits different landscapes as it journeys through time, twisted and turned. A part of me lies in the pristine mountains, some other submerged in the waters of the South. Perhaps it would be best to let the streams unwind on their own and be washed into the sea.
No number could ever justify the depth that we have seen amalgamated into one.
Growing Up – a series on well, growing up. Every Saturday because Saturdays are perfect for overthinking.
The Wordcastle 