FEELING OLD

I opened my eyes and fixed my hair. Straightened my back and ticked another dozen micro habits into check. My parents' advice and the wisdom of strangers on Internet threads became my first instinct. I opened my eyes, and the mystic forages of youth dissipated before I could hold its cough. Now everything has status, a certain logic wiring the theatre. Like an old habit of our pastimes, we grasp onto an undulating flow and balance. Three little boys taming the wind with a diamond-shaped sail, pretending to be the one shrouded among snowy billows like the great gods of old yellow books. Somewhere, a balloon bursts out of view. I'm eating a dead grandmother's signature dish. Sweet potato sweats, the fish is white and smokes. You're twirling a flower in your fingers, staring down the center of the bud like you got an answer the first time. When did questions become so expensive? When did the sun decide that I'm past my prime and speed away without consulting me first, without my say in how to break it to me?