I’ve been practicing what it feels like to be an old man for years now.
An old man with all the good parts, none of the bad.
The pace that is measured, unrushed.
Days that spill out like a cracked egg always the same, always not.
The solace of being left all alone. But also the option for companions, however remote.
To be old with more of your life behind you than before, a private study full of books with softened spines, a musty air.
A certain peace to just gaze upon that place, on all you’ve collected and amassed.
A peace in knowing that even if you wanted to, you don’t have room to add much more.
So let us not disparage the old but celebrate its gifts. Celebrate before the bad parts creep in,
before we go cold.