I rise from my slumber with grace, though weak, I perform without a trace. Going through the motions that society places, I miss you every day. Sometimes I think I see your face, your grey wispy hair all on your face. I miss the wrinkles under your eyes, when I think really hard it makes me cry. You used to hold my hand, grasping with love, I could feel your heart beat, and pulse through your glove. You wore a hat, made with lace and tule, You thought it made you look so cool. I miss you more every day, but there is something I should say. You are my reason I keep moving on, you are my reason I stay strong. My love, my strength, my guardian being. I love you more, please pick up this keying. I hope you are happy, so filled with glee, I hope you know what you meant to me.

If one more person at church

comes up to me and says that the Lord wanted them to talk to me,

I'm going to lose my shit.

I don't want to be the person

that puts God in a box

and say He can't do something.

But part of me wonders if he would do something.

What I mean by that is,

would God really have a person

who has never been bothered to learn my name

or spend any time getting to know me

probe into my life and tell me hard truths about myself?

Because that doesn't make any sense to me.

It truly doesn't.

Why would God have that stranger

ask me personal questions around other people

instead of asking me in private?

Would God really do that?

Put your pain on display for everyone to see

just to prove a point?

I don't think He fucking would.

That kind of evangelism is so fucking detrimental.

As someone who has loved God for years,

I'm getting mighty fed up with it all.

Curiosity did not kill the cat. Instead, it led the cat to discover gravity, take pictures of black holes, split atoms into quarks, and recently, teach AI to write college-grade essays. Yes, Dear Reader, that is what I consider the central principle of my everyday life.

It is curiosity that makes me get out of bed, meet new people, read more books, get into discussions, and go to sleep knowing I have done something worthwhile. I am never satisfied with my course books because I always want to know more about the things I study almost as badly as the cat wants belly rubs.

Without these essential belly rubs, life is akin to an NPC that follows a preprogrammed lifestyle. That is why I am always on the lookout for mysteries to pursue, unanswerable questions to ponder, obstacles to overcome, and anything that ignites the curiosity of the cat within me.

How old would I be if I didn`t know how old I am?

I would be ageless.

Boundless.

I would fly through life like Peter Pan,

oblivious to the adult`s greater plan.

I would be young and old, the ages of time

would be within me all at once,

And I would be enough.

Being too small would not exist.

Being too young would be an urban legend.

"You`ll understand when you`re older"

I would answer, "I am old enough."

But we all grow regardless of age.

I would be taught by life and learn from mistakes.

If there is no age for people to use against me,

I would be free to remain young until my body withers

and fades.

No age means no boundaries. No cage to feel trapped in.

I would be the master of my own fate.

I would have no age.

My mind says I’m only twelve years old, my pictures, without filters, say I’m thirty-two.

But my body has been so abused and broken by different means, that the pain of living everyday makes me feel like onehundredthirtytwo!

My mind still wants to climb trees and run on the beach and ride horses.

My body says ouch! You’re too stiff for that, you can’t move that way anymore!

Just this week I got results back from testing last month and I have two disks in my neck deteriorating and three in my lower back deteriorating, one is bulging and causing pressure.

Im looking at wheelchair options…..

Im fifty five.

Im much too young to feel this damned old!

i've begun to hear screaming in my head.

if i stop and think for long enough my thoughts will dissolve into unintelligible gibberish, knit together by mindless syllables and frantic intensity.

what does it mean to be vulnerable?

i've never had a problem with opening up.

i'll talk about suicide with a smile.

i'll reminisce on every past flaw, spotlight every embarrassing moment, showcase every intrusive thought.

it is the curse of impulse.

in the absence of traditional restraint, i am forced to fill the void with words, even if it means slipping up and saying something i shouldn't have.

i've always craved the self-control to be silent.

silence is alien to me.

all i've ever known is noise.

noise is the comfort that lurks, constant, in my brain.

if i dare to fall silent, the void must be filled.

hence the screaming.

and the embarrassing stories.

is that what being vulnerable means?

turning my self harm into a funny story, a joke?

turning myself into a joke?

am i a joke?

i've always been told i need to open up, peel back the layers of my skin until the brain underneath is exposed.

and yet i've also been told i'm an open book, unwilling or unable to hide.

i don't know what the world requires.

what do i have to share that i haven't already told?

my entire identity is a display, cultivated for your enjoyment.

maybe that's the problem.

all the ways in which i have defined myself are becoming obsolete, and i have nothing to replace it with.

who am i, if not a joke?

if we strip that away, what will be left?

jokes are the layers of fat shielding me from the cold of my bones.

do i really want to see, want to know, what's underneath?

will it save me, or break me?

my head is screaming again.

this doesn't make sense.

is that because i've decided this challenge is too vulnerable?

am i saying too much?

i taught myself that no one cares what i have to say.

whether it's true or not doesn't matter.

i've been treated like i'm annoying every time i open my mouth, because once i start talking i am unable to stop.

once i start thinking i am unable to stop, until my thoughts dissolve into the gibberish of agony.

i taught myself that no one cares.

that i'm wrong.

that i'm annoying.

that i sound stupid.

my voice is wrong.

my words are wrong.

my opinions are wrong.

and yet, it doesn't matter.

i still can't shut up.

every word is forced from my throat as violently as vomit, pulled from the most acidic depths of my soul and spewed out onto anyone who happens to be nearby.

or no one at all.

sometimes i am so desperate to speak that i find myself talking to the walls.

craving an interaction that is impossible.

it is easier to talk to the walls than it is to talk to people.

walls are good listeners.

yet they cannot provide what i crave: real, honest discussion.

i want to say something controversial and be proven wrong.

i want to say something that people can understand, that people can support.

i want my thoughts to mean something.

but when you never stop talking, your voice eventually becomes meaningless.

devolving into nonsensical mania.

just like my thoughts.

i have stripped myself of my meaning, and now there is nothing left.

no vulnerability, because that would mean opening myself up and exposing my innards to the world, and i have no more innards left to show.

every time i open my mouth, a little more of me is stripped away.

but i still haven't stopped talking.

and the screaming in my head still hasn't stopped.

If I didn't know my real age,

I'd probably think that I'm

a teenager still, as I look

a lot younger than I actually

am, and I'm still just as short

as I was when I used to

attend school, back then.

So, that's why I think if I

didn't know any better, I'd

think that I'm still a

teenager, not quite matured

or fully grown yet...perhaps?

I look in the mirror and see myself as others see me. Act your age! If I had no reflection, and no one saw my body, then I am just starting out.

Free of my mother's angry constraint. Free of my family's molded box. Ready to make my life something I can love, so maybe my early twenties?

I'm told I come across as a much younger woman when involved in Discord chats, or group discussions. People are shocked when they find out I'm a great grandmother to two children. I would have two foster granddaughters who I would much rather hang out with, that the old folks I know as neighbors. Even though my hair has turned silver in wide streaks among the blonde, and there are deep laugh wrinkles beside clear alert green/gold hazel eyes, I don't feel them as signs of aging.

I'm ready to start out on a whole new career. Can't wait to spring the concepts as we get ready to launch a writing space with a totally new twist.

So what if my driver's license says sixty four? I'm twenty-five forever, with the strength I've been blessed with by life and love that has come before.

I think parts of me are different ages, you could tear me apart, limb by limb, and you would be able to never guess how the parts of me belong to each other. I am a paradox by my very existence. I am old and new at the same time. My fingers are old, they hold the earth like they have felt its waters a million times over. They drum along to old songs from the '80s, the '40s, and the '20s, then to hymns that were first sung thousands of years ago. They touch the ivory keys on a piano with the same fervor and curiosity that Mozart and Beethoven had. My hands are the oldest in the way they hold a paintbrush, only wanting to capture raw human emotion as softly as possible.

Yet my eyes are young, they have life and light in them. Yes, they show the heaviness of my pain but do not mistake that for a faded spirit. The youth in my eyes is only filled with possibilities. I look up at the stars and the universe with the same astonishment and child-like awe that you can see in cracks through the professional facade of astronomers when they send satellites into deep space. My eyes will show you all the things that you can be and everything you have ever wanted to be.

Just like that, I am made up of different pieces. My feet are old, they have walked this earth hundreds of times before and they are no strangers to the soil. I can walk anywhere, however long it takes me, I have no objections. My smile is that of a 19 year old, forever on the edge of adulthood but still standing in adolescence. I will hug you like I am 78, and this may be the last time. I will hold your hand like I am 2 and you are all I know and have in this world. I will love you in multiple ways. I will love you like the 8-year-old who needs her father's hand to jump across a river, and I will love you like we are 15 and have never known hurt before. I will love you like I am 18 and see the rest of my life with you. I will love you like I am 29, creating our life together. I will love you like I am 35, where, in the mess of life and chaos, I still choose you. I will love you like I am 50, still in love with your smile and the glitter in your eyes. I will love you like I am 83 and not even death can pull us apart. I will love you in all these ways, all at once.

I have no fear of turning 20, or 30, or 50, or 80 and I especially, have no fear of meeting death. For my soul is without age, it floats and it dances. It belongs to futuristic dreamers and impressionist painters. It reads the articles of tomorrow and falls in love with the classics of yesterday. My soul is not a diamond to be valued, it is simply beautiful because it is. I could guess my age in every mirror, but each time I would see something different. In one, I would see my mother's face, and in another, I will see my younger sister. My face, my features, and my aura were generations in the making and will be seen for generations to come. My eyes are hundreds of generations old, and my nose will be there for generations to come. You have seen me before and you will see me again.

I suppose I couldn't say how old I am, just that I am of this earth and in the most earth-shattering and unnerving way, I am human.