I walk under a bruise-colored sky. I wait for rain. It isn’t hard to understand that things change, but it is hard to accept them. I remember blue sky and white clouds. I remember the smell of snow at midnight. I remember my childhood and haircuts and insatiable moxie. I’m also aware of the aches that have started in my limbs and the restless feeling that arrives late at night. I don’t sleep as soundly as I once did. I don’t have nightmares, but I do not dream either. The transition from night to day is a blur that I am no longer aware of.
Outwardly, a person like myself is described as feeling ambivalence, an inability to choose between modes. I could only describe myself as ambivalent if there was indecision; can there be indecision if there is no desire to choose? There is only a blazing rage beneath my skin, burning from the inside out but unable to ever breach the surface. There is a desire to scream and to kick and to create havoc, but it is only within my blood. It will never go farther. Outside, there is only a desire to be.
If I were to ask, they would say it was only natural to feel this way as one ages. We throw things away to let new things fill the places of the old. Clothes, toys, people. Everything is disposable, fleeting, impermanent. So am I.
But my rage assures me that I will endure. Transitory beings don’t know passion.