Work Text
Jesse called out; cried into the empty fissure between today and tomorrow. He cannot tell why he is today; he cannot tell why he was yesterday. He simply cannot comprehend his own existence. Why he is today, he cannot know.He moves upon his way slowly; he dawdles to and fro. This way, that way. Knees creak, ankles crunch. Body aches, old age addled is it. Body aches; bones yellow, cracked are they.Pain, he cries, pain. He aches; his body aged beyond years. Aged more than a man could bear. His hair cracks and crumbles. Upon touch will he bruise, skin crying purple tears. Arms blotched with black and brown and blue paint.Age, figurative, distinctly riddles a physicality; an enigma. No number will commit to body; not it, no. Body is age. Young is it, body is still full of folds, creases, spots and all. Age knows no bound, as mental as it is.The slow throb of life is false, is it as it is. No personification life will bring. Freedom is fleeting; bruises blotted into its carapace. Jesse is not aged; not aged is he. His mind is nigh twenty; though his skin cracked, split. Mistaken as an elderly is he.He minds the strips of gray falling from his scalp, as wispy and frayed are they. Teeth, gone thus fifteen years. Neck hunched, spine curved. Mind is yet twenty; body is many.Age, an enigma; of mind is not of body. Seen it is through the lives of so many. Jesse, never free from bags of the eye nor sagging of the loin. No freedom of age, mind is at no comprehension, not of body, is not. Body knows not of the enigma of age. Far from it is the chasm of life and death.Body knows not of the mind nor mind of the body.