At 55

In my 56th rotation around the Sun, like a chicken on a rotisserie, or a pig in a pit, I am.

I live only in this moment where tinnitus and arthritis are my constant companions.

No guarantees, no warranties, no wallabies, no garish brasseries…

Never having lost at love, I’ve only learned.

At 55, wisdom should flow from me like a waterfall;

Instead, I issue wise observations one drop, one pebble in the pond at a time of my choosing.

I like happiness, I like kindness, I like a lot of conditions we call emotional responses

Of sets of states of energy cooperating rather than competing.

At 55, I’ve seen it all or projected it into the future…

Variations on a theme.

I want to believe I’m other than I am,

A lazy, selfish oaf, tired most of the time,

Stretching the perimeters of my comfort zone

To be, or attempt to see, other than I am.

Theory is nice and all —

Word combinations can simulate that which might be —

But practical limits on my capabilities bring reality into focus,

Erasing infinite futures, replacing them with a line.

I know how to project the temporary image of a loving person,

Well-practiced responses to growing up in fear of passive-aggressive parental attacks,

And, unfortunately, that’s all I have to offer, a false front.

I’m guided by fear, not love,

Raised under the promise of a technological utopian future,

Conflicted and inflicted with vertigo-induced side effects of staring at the electronic glass mantra of this screen.

Att 55, this is me,

Belonging nowhere,

Cared for by one in one scenario,

Caring for another in another scenario,

Trapped in a comfort zone of unhappiness,

Wishing for the uncomfortable zone of happiness,

No matter how contradictory it sounds/reads.

At 55, I am tired,

Unable to count my blessings,

But fully aware of the privileges my current living conditions provide,

Fully aware of the generation gap my workmates and their peers exemplify,

Bridging the gap through dance.

At 55, dance is the one language I like to speak when I can’t speak and be understood at my age.

At 55, I don’t have the strength to attempt to live on my own, I never have,

Requiring faith in a future self I’ve never come close to.

At 55, I remain a dreamer.

Dreams are the only reality I’ve ever known,

Hiding from a benign universe,

Believing the universe is aligned for my existence alone.

At 55…

25…

Or 5.

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