Question: How old are you?
If I could count down from my end rather than up from my beginning, I’d tell you my true age – and still you’d learn far less about me than what you’ll glean from this page… unless you’re smart enough that is, to close your mouth and open your mind and stop asking the one idiotic question from which you’ll never divine – who I am, what I believe or anything of any significance my brain could possibly conceive.
For time is relative and age is fucking fiction, a tale followed blindly by those searching for direction. Obliviously optimistic they cling to the illusion of longevity, worshiping anything and everything that offers them a modicum of false security.
Packed up tightly in their little box, fortified by imagined boundaries, they slide the lid shut rather than embracing life’s possibilities. Acting their age they engage in charades, taking on the personality of who and how they’re supposed to behave –– all while passing judgement on those who refuses to bend, unwilling to subjugate themselves by attempting to fit in.
Everyday we wake up we’re each on the clock, never knowing how, when or where our gears will wind to an unsuspecting stop – so grow the fuck down and rise to your occasion, knowing that age and time are powerless against the gravity of youthful conviction.