In this beautiful life of hidden secrets, where tomorrow is already written into a complicated nothingness, there exists an extraordinary knowingness, a latched system of unknown everythingness.
Social media platforms are overloaded with ancestral, whispering flavours of aging and senior stumbles.
My current flavours are distinctly different.
My blinking eyes see through the lenses into the skyward dents in the vast horizons.
The best of moments happen in humbled simplicity. Rich and famous glittering moments come to us in moments of solid, hidden gold.
A memorable moment. I was asked my age by an Uber driver. When I shared that I was born in 1952, he, being 25 years of age, looked at me and asked the most intriguing questions.
His conversation stirred mega thoughts in my empty mind. He asked, "Please tell me, what kind of life have you had? Was it too fast, too slow, too hard, too easy?" He went on in the most earnest voice, eagerly waiting for my answer.
"Mum," he said, "nearly 74 years - that's a very long time...!"
My Uber friend got my mind steamrolling. What kind of life have I had?
My mind over this matter played out like a cinemascope movie...
With gleaming eyes, I saw images of interest. YES, indeed a very interesting life. Days of meditative quietude, rushes and rollercoasters of high tides and low tides, the ebb and flow of mega excitement, rumbles inside.
At bitter ends with the ruffles, amidst the cries and the joyride.
A life of fun, fears, fame, and frivolity's surprises, struggles and strives, tired sometimes, too much admin and rules to abide.
Never a dull moment, though many a time just wanting to sit and watch the waves slide and glide.
The magic of seeing the daily sunrise, and watching the sunset horizons bid bye.
Glancing side to side, awaiting a daily newness to arrive. What a life, to learn, to laugh, and to live. To be born, to die. How was my life?
Uber friend, thank you for my Uber ride, thank you for being part of my journey, which will, in readiness, one day be left behind.
Never a dull moment.
Every narrative is about life and living.
The crack in the knee is a beat of the changing rhythm of the footprints on the paths. The crack speaks: "...kindly give me a seat. My music, my feet, are slightly off beat..."
