How do we grow old?

Once the pebbles giving way were counted beneath the plods and descending motion of our will, and now the avalanche bears down on us psychologically padding each stride. What in the end of our greatest efforts will make worthy our singular struggle against the snow of time. And if we really think about it, isnt it the accidental fall most of us desire. Or do there exist warriors among us, without kings, who reach a satisfactory destination neither tired of running, or accepting defeat. They turn snarling, gritting, bubbling with madness to land one blow to the inevitable, and are washed away without a ripple or a sound except the chilling scream of fearlessness. When will we create them? Still some will run till they give out, there they will lay on their backs as the icy blanket creeps slowly up the body passing over them without the slightest hesitation. Will we leave them to be taken under? We are all runners, panting in the frozen air pondering the same fate, and questions, each with a different answer. Now multiply that by every relationship you have! Its a funny game isnt it? Still there are those we refuse to run without, and those we will carry. There are those that in the moment of certainty we will launch forward, with only the thought of the landing to comfort the violence of our burying. What if anything could we draw as conclusions for this? Looking past this ideological shrinking, what will be your last image guaranteed to you? It will not be your job, or your favorite car. Not the designer draws the last girlfriend you used got you for Christmas. It will not be the <insert label> purse that sucker you were milking bought you for your looks. It will not be an equation, bridge, painting, government, book or masterpiece alike. None of the needless bullshit we so meticulously acquire, along with the eccentricities of persona will make the cut. It will be the faces of who you love, simple, sweet, ridiculously clich, but altogether true. No greatness, fearlessness, patheticness, color, sex, geographic location could ever break this simple truth, we so willingly forget. Its all the value of time can be. The opportunity to love and run. The best part, ok it is this, but the most interesting part is all that we create in between. We build, destroy, forget, leave, maintain, and are stuck with all these relationships speckled throughout, in search of these faces. Then..we do the same thing over again to live and maintain with them. Disregarding necessity what did the earliest humans with the most fragile life spans seek? Well besides looking for food and protection all they had was each other. As we maintain each other we build and fortify and develop, reassuring our faces to be enjoyed savored and neglected. We have slowed the avalanche to the point of boredom and discontent. We have created all the distractions possible to survive our faces in the seemingly mundane trenches of modern life. We have allowed ourselves to no longer run, and therefore relinquish the grip once held of our love. Love is allowed to canter about mocking itself with the absence of threat. We have idolized death to the point of insanity, and stripped it of its finer qualities, and in doing so lost sight of love over the horizon. It has come to pass that humanity has created for itself the survival of value, of relativity of..love. Our wishes, our instant gratification, and our ignorance of value have set before us the grandest mystery. What are we becoming? What will nature allow us to become? Will we see a day that a life passes and all that can be gleaned in the closing of time is temptation? Is our vanity so bold as to challenge time to a battle of value? All the questions, with time to tell. One day maybe we will just run, not for fear of death, or vanity, but for love and the run. To change the purpose for this deluge of

ice completely, and in doing so mature past humanity as we know it. Not the kind without violence, conflict, or mediocrity. But the kind free of the delusion, that we have any choice in being delusional. A moment in time were all my stare about distantly into the cataclysmic void of nothingness from which birthed our somethingness. Where every mind is involuntarily blank except for the graphic stream of realization that exists objectively moralessly in our ever gazing senses and jagged stretching smiles. In which, we shall tear out into the future fearless and thoughtless to quench on whatever may be beyond our limits.. Even more glorious is the resolidifacation destined to take place after such a feast. Everything unravels to become substance for the next unraveling, and in this we will be abundant in material. We test this very thing in the vehicle we are driving. A union for answers, a battle for value but too often we listen to our bodies, and romanticize time to little. So how do we grow old? How do we allow our faces to distort? To have the chance to really love in a lifetime is life changing in itself. Why do we choose to change the wrong things about ourselves for love? All of us realize this crap of truth, but wish to protect the faces of love with our mediocrity. We lull our love and ourselves to sleep as if all will be better lethargic and common, but find both aged and rusty when time to use. If no one has the courage to walk away from love or age if the time is right, what right do we have for either Things as things dodull. The will is what keeps sharping them in the night while all edges rest. So the bullshit will fall to pieces with a single swipe, when it is chosen to rise. We are all sharp and blunt, but this cyclic battle keeps all things smelling of youth, and struggle. Or I suppose we could drift off.into a world of comfort, threaded with not others ideas, but the ideas they wish you to have. To sit and watch till we no longer care or understand what it is we were watching, and to curl up desperate, scared alone and old scarcely able to remember the first taste of love. Old men and women should be like old tigers. It is best not to rattle them to much, because they just might, say to hell with it, one last time before they go. Nursing homes should be like biker bars only more dangerous and scandalous, because cane crutch wheelchair or hobble the time is now. Lets grow something different than age, like ourselves, and let our faces guide us as we turn to meet the infinite tide of time, with everything we have grown to understand. And when the echo of our seasoned war cry has ceased to resonate in the ears of love, allow love to inherit the ferocity of our way in living. Nothing is quite as useless as a dull knife; its attribute is its character