I’ve come to realize that, in the end, we become prisoners of our own bodies.
Bodies that grow heavy, uncoordinated, weak, dark... unsure of where we’re even going.
And it seems that everything we once knew no longer exists the way it once did.
There are already those who run faster than us, who are stronger than us,
who know more about science—though they still lack wisdom and experience.
And yet, our voices are no longer heard.
Those who used to walk behind us now rush ahead, believing that scientific knowledge equals wisdom.
I suppose there's something sad in every stage of life. Because even though I’ve now lived more experiences, and there are many things I could do better and with more wisdom than when I was young, I no longer have the strength to do them. I can’t move from place to place as I wish.
I’ve become a prisoner of those who make decisions for me without asking.
They decide what time I eat. And even if I’m not hungry, I must eat at that time.
Otherwise, they’ll excuse themselves by saying, “Mealtime has passed.” So I have to choose between eating when they say, or not eating at all for the rest of the day.
I’m no longer free to choose to eat at three or four in the afternoon, on a warm day, on my porch, in front of my flowers, while the neighborhood children play back and forth.
They’ve chosen what clothes I’ll wear today.
And even though I asked to wear my pink sweater, they put the purple one on me, insisting it’s pink.
And it’s true—I can no longer distinguish colors.
Everything has turned into a cave where I rarely catch a glimpse of light, and even that fades quickly.
But sometimes, my hands can still feel the difference between the buttons on my pink and purple sweaters. And I know they are not the same.
They try to tell me how I should behave.
And often I ask myself—why do they dare to tell me how I should live or act, as if they knew what’s best for me?
My days are counted. And still, they try to mold me to live how they want. I suppose they believe they know what’s best, even though they don’t know me.
It seems absurd, annoying, and disrespectful.
But I no longer care to argue. Arguing is pointless at this stage, and I’d rather remain silent.
I suppose it makes them feel better. It makes them believe they’re right. That they know me better than I know myself.
But I’m just me... with a tired body and a weary mind.
There are bad days, and a few good ones.
On the good days, when I feel strong and willing to talk, no one wants to listen.
But in this body that is a prisoner of itself—unable to move for lack of strength, unsure where to go for fear of falling in the dark, without a guiding light—one of the few moments of freedom I still find is when the memories of my youth come to visit... and someone is willing to listen to how beautiful and painful my life has been.
When they listen to me recite my favorite recipes—the ones I truly enjoyed making for the people who loved me.
When they listen to me tell the story of those two young lovers who fought over me in my youth.
That day, even my father had to step in and got hurt in the scuffle.
When I remember that, I can’t help but laugh—men fighting over me.
Ah, those were good days.
But if I speak of my lovers, I can’t help the dryness that settles in my face when I remember that my greatest love left this world when we were still so young.
I gave him all my love, completely. But he flew away, leaving me alone with our little treasure—who, despite everything, has forgotten me in this place.
Yes, there is sadness in every stage of life.
Now I’ve lived through things that make me reflect on my decisions, on what I could have done differently.
Now I can see more clearly that it’s not worth wasting days or weeks angry over a meaningless argument.
That saying “I’m sorry” and “forgive me” shouldn’t hurt my pride, but instead help me grow as a person.
That saying “I love you” and “I care about you” more often was something I should have done—because I didn’t know the smiles of those I loved would vanish so soon.
And maybe a simple “I’m sorry” and “I love you” would be a greater treasure to me now than anything money could buy.
I suppose what’s sad about this stage of life is not having the strength to do everything I now wish I could do—only now with wisdom.
And what saddens me even more is realizing that, in an earlier stage of life—when I had the strength and ability to go wherever I wanted—I didn’t yet have the wisdom to understand how fast life slips away.
I wish I had understood that forgiving and saying “I’m sorry” was something so profoundly simple.
That pride—the one that got in the way of so many of my decisions, that ruled over my life and governed me—was really just something senseless.
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