I seem to be at odds with my mind these days, so complex are the goings-on in there. Questions and theories become proclamations and decisions and bustling conversations. Emotions turn the table, back and forth, cloaking sensible thought in absolute chaos. Argument, disillusionment, confusion. I know what I want. I know what I’m saying. I think I do… wait a minute. I think too much.
And then in a split second, I am shown the mind reduced to life in simplest terms. What year is it? Do you know who the president is? Trick questions, I ask? To some, like my grandfather, they’re just tricky.
I used to think old age signified an inherent wisdom—an oracle. Like the Owl and the Ancient Tortoise. Not so. That’s really just in movies and storybooks. No, real-life old age is a return to life in its simplest terms. Gone are the dynamic conversations and tug-of-war mental games. The mind is a stock library of 3 or 4 stories from the past. And though a few words and facts change here and there, the stories stay surprisingly intact. All other memory fades away. All confusion is gone. All complexity. All emotion even, it seems. Gone.
I know I’ll be able to see beauty in it one day, when I am indeed able to see clearly.