wist

the old people are curious, cautious, wistful. Their faces mist back to the days of old, to happier days, simpler days. To times of debauchery and freedom. They say, with small creases of muted passion: you have all the time, you can do whatever you wish.
Their eyes flicker back to a youth within reach, to a time so familiar but too foreign. They remember how time crept like a smooth fox. gradual gradual.

Can you tell me?
Getting old? Is that the question?
It's just, I don't know what it's like
The thing is. Thing is, you hardly notice. It happens so slowly. You look different in the mirror, but inside you feel pretty much the same. You're just a kid with an old man's body, that's how it feels. Same for everyone, I guess.
Eyrie, Tim Winton

I like talking about the ambiguity of future with mildly-prying elders. They say, we can't believe you are so old, we can't believe it at all. Their eyelashes are sometimes stubby, naked, fluttering fast in still stale air. I can't believe it either, I say, I feel like high school was yesterday, just yesterday.

And oh I hate abiding to cliches, although they may function as useful communication devices. I do feel like a cliche, swimming in the big world without armbands. I am excited and poised, frightened and nervous.
Not sure what is to come, not sure, unsure. Time feels different. The hands race-not-walk around the face of time, jerking into motion with guileless speed.
They're just doing their job.