Early morning, sky silver and next door a chicken is bawking, clucking, making known her post-egg angst. The boys are coming soon, they will burst in the door, they will want smoothies, playing, holding, attention. I am feeling some sort of post-something angst myself this morning, surrounded by a world which constantly renews itself, redefines itself not unlike the ocean, so seemingly eternal, which changes with every wave. Meanwhile I seem merely to sink further and further into sure decay, my only changes those of aging and decrepitude.
This may be illusion but the truth of the matter is - I will never lay another egg.
Well, to everything there is a season and I certainly had mine and this is just another part of it all I suppose, although not one I was truly prepared for. Why is there such mystification at the face in the mirror as the years progress? Why do we think that we will be the first to escape time's ravagings?
Have I not studied Keith Richards carefully?