Let’s talk like we’re old.
Like we always did in school.
Where we were expected to be clay in the hands of our teachers.
Learning how to spell “because” because it would help us later in life.
Now our bodies grow.
And life is just a train track.
And there are two trains with the same destination.
On the same track.
And the collision is inevitable.
Tragic.
All we want to do is put on the brakes.
There is a lot of screeching, from the passengers and metal.
And every thought is a passenger.
And the metal is the pain.
The joy.
And when they collide.
The fire is beautiful.
Deadly.
And we realize ourselves.
The clay is soft from all the molding.
We don’t just talk about being old.
We are old.
