Contrast

I love innocence. I suspect everyone, or almost everyone, else does too. There is something alluring about sweetness. It makes horror movies like The Fly all that more terrifying. Flies are drawn to sweetness.

They want to gobble it up, Wallow in it. Lay their eggs on it. Raise their young in it. In a way it is their own steadfast faithfulness to being true to who they are, but to others, like me, it is a horror story filled with squirming larva.

Contrast fills this world. It is as if nature was afraid we might miss something so it gave us day and night, birth and death, health and putrefaction, youth and age. Such large complex differences are hard to miss.

I am aware that my body has been slowly decaying since the day I was born. By age ten I spent hours with the very elderly and knew what was coming. It seemed so far away then. Now it looms over me in ways I am unsure of.

Part of me feels as if I am slowly fading into the atmosphere, becoming one with everything else and less of a force myself.

Part of me sees the horror of that beautiful blonde baby now bloated with age and over indulging.

I wish I could be one of the innocent old ladies sitting sweetly in the sunshine watching the young people get on with their lives, nodding in affirmation, but I still want to be part of it all.

I just don't want to be a suffering harridan projecting my pain out onto others around me; a lighthouse highlighting imperfection and disgruntlement.