On Passing Days

To fill my otherwise almost empty fridge - apart from some beverages and a bottle of water - I bought some grapes, consuming them slowly over a few days. These are the little steps, almost imperceptible, of my move from my parents' flat. Yes, all these happening close to my grand old age of fifty. At times, I don't like this body - I am entitled to, since it only belongs to me - the aches, the pain, the fatigue and loss of lean muscle. Genetically, I can't complain: I am great with cardio, though I have always been on the smaller side, without the necessary mass for muscular training. I realised that innately I may be more capable to suffer singlehood than I thought: I have always been resourceful, working with little. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. And I have always been alone, a social outcast. Or maybe it was my circumstances that force me so: I have never bothered myself much with social pleasantries. But with age, I find myself indulging once in a while in small talks with the people I meet in my daily life - those I don't really want to know more about. I guess men are social animal after all. It is true, I think, that being old allows one to shred some of those old inhibitions. As if the passing days are to be only looked back at with fondness, nostalgia, nothing more. After all, you realised you have nothing more to lose after losing your youth, the most precious of treasures.