Once upon a time
Maybe last week
I was well... well-er
Maybe it was yesterday.
And my bike was
Freedom.
I could go... and go
And there were no tanks
Or batteries
To make limits.
And I was eight
And the wind whipped
Through my mind
And my hair.
And there was
Everywhere that
I could go.
Wind whipping
Pedaling
Free as my bike
And the mind-wind
And maybe..
Maybe it was yesterday?
That I had hair
And mind
For the wind to whip
And freedom...
Bike freedom...
Was I eight again
Yesterday?
3 comments:
Nice bike Ted.
Isn't that the deepest darkest secret? That we never see ourselves as "old"? My in-laws, who are 90 and who reluctantly went into aged care recently, tell me that they don't really like it there (despite the place looking like a resort on a tropical island) because "it's, you know, full of old people". The two of them are the oldest residents.
I think we are always 8 or 18 or 28 and there the time stops. At least on some level.
Being eight. Sometimes I would think this must be a gift, sometimes I would consider it to be a curse. You just described being eight in a way that makes me think of being eight as a wonderful thing.
Nice shot and pp!
cheers,
Roland
Eight is the most wonderful age I think Roland. So much is amazing... astonishing... and if you're family's good (mine was wonderful) then so is life at that age. Puberty's terrors and storms are still so far off, friends play, summer's are sooooo wonderfully long and winters mean snow, and dogs romp, and on a bike the world's totally available.At 8, mothers and dads still hug us, and we don't squirm away. Truth... wouldn't you maybe just once look forward to those hugs today?
My mother Cedric when she was well into her 80s confided, "You know Teddy, inside here," she tapped her head, "I'm somewhere between 39 and 42 years old. But when I get out of this chair... AS I get out of this chair, well I'm not the age I am in here," and she tapped her head again. "When did it all come disconnected?" She wondered.
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