It gives me a strange pleasure to think about getting old.
Some days I imagine myself in a small cabin near a placid river or a roaring sea, surrounded by my favorite books and an old time phone on the bed side table and a small kitchen. I like to think of me as an old woman strolling along the water body, cooking for herself and reading, writing and/or getting drunk as the night unfolds.
On other days I see myself in a wrinkled face with constantly shivering hands sitting on a wooden chair next to an old man who doesn’t mind listening to my repetitive stories for the nth time.
I don’t know what life has planned for me in those years of 70s or 80s but I am equally excited for both the situations. I can’t prefer one over the other.
And then there are days like today when I want the best for myself – a cabin, woods, an old man and walks – and these words get typed almost by themselves.
Plato was right when he said, “When the emotion is love, everyone becomes a poet.”