You are not the person you used to be.
That person was given a certain place, a certain name. A certain purpose.
Your name is “old lady” now.
You have been consumed by your tribe. A tribe that you never chose to join. You’ve been tossed in. Disposed of. Dissolved.
And time—it has become your obsession. Your nemesis. Your white whale.
You can’t keep up with it. You can’t catch it, hold it, speed it up or slow it down. It seeps through your fingers like sand. And it cakes, hardens, and cracks your skin like clay.
And everyone else—the fortunate people with a designated place, purpose—they run around you, trample over you, grumble as you invariably trip them up and slow them down. You’re a speed bump in a marathon. You don’t make sense.
You’re in the way.
But this is the riddle. Your body is slowing down, refusing to participate. It is remembering something that everyone once knew but has forgotten. The runners, they are running towards nothing and past everything. If they stopped to look at you, they might just get what they’ve been chasing.
There was never a prize at the end of this race.
There was never a race at all.
Your body is remembering that there is nothing and nowhere to run to, strive to, cling to.
And this is the clue. Pushing through your skin, making cracks, wrinkles, room. It is the infinite peaking through the finite.
You are stars, standing still long enough to finally recognize their reflection.
Nothing else was ever needed.
What you can do or can’t do or did do or didn’t do is of no consequence. Nothing, not even you, can dull this magnificent inherent light. Your light.
And when these stars eclipse their shell, we will continue reclaiming our birthright, our one simple profound purpose, to illuminate the dark.
Your younger self, excited to see you, to be you.
Author: Jenny Spitzer
Editor: Khara-Jade Warren
Image: Ismael Nieto/ Unsplash