Youth kept moving away from me as I tried desperately to hold onto it. I followed it into perilous jungles, up and down mountain peaks, and along turbulent rivers. If I reached out for it, it would disappear, always taunting me with its trickery and elusiveness.
I bought expensive creams to cover my body with, but my wrinkles were still there. Time and truth were like stubborn old men that kept laughing at me in my futility.
I surrounded myself with youthful exuberant faces and people with smooth skin, but I was the future to them that they would soon enter into and lose their luster. I reminded them of their languorous days to come.
I reached out to life and begged for its mercy, but all it said was, “make the best of it, for it is truth, that inevitable procession that marches toward the lonely, withering end. Do not fight with it. Do not swim against the current, but rather relax and submit to its flowing.”
Our youthful appeal leaves us a little more each day, but it is replaced by a recollection of life’s many dramas while they unfold, taking us along the road to wisdom.