Chronologically, I’m not that old. Perhaps this is the prime of my youth. I should embrace life with open arms, take risks like I never did before, weekends should strictly be spent being intoxicated, relationships should be stuff I indulged in only as a teenager and ‘action’ (pun unintended) should be the only aspiration. But strangely, none of the above things seem particularly exciting. Neither incessant states of inebriation nor the idea of being wooed by a host of men…cheap thrills seem to be rushes I grew out of even before I began to entirely appreciate them.
Perhaps the one activity that always put me in touch with my youth was driving. The car was not the vehicle to drive me to the destination, it was as though the mere technical skill of shifting gears and pumping up the speedometer drove me to the moon. And it was an overwhelming feeling; it was the feeling of being capable, of being independent, confident and powerful… the feeling of sheer possibility, of hope! But after yesterday, not even that remains. The car is a car, a mode of transport I’m licensed to move around and it brings me home. Somehow, I’m led to believe that old age is making its presence felt in my life in more ways than one, it’s not just the premature graying of hair; it’s the state of my soul.