In response to the daily prompt Transformation

Ever feel like your life is full of cracks, an eggshell with thin vein-like lines, and your consciousness is seeping through every second, running down the floor and leaking into the sponge of the world? Everywhere you go you leave a bit of yourself.
The edge of your painting smudged, the colour absently wiped on the wall of the street across my home.
We were all museums of innocence, auctioned off to life to be used and pillaged till we stand there, a thousand years old in the cynical shells of youth.

Our youth is only skin deep.
We transform, withering into autumn leaves through the pestilence of despondency. The translucency of a world with hope, the Schrödinger effect of being worth while and worthless, young and old, selfish and surprised till one day, we are not debating  anymore.
One day we wake up and find ourselves black or white, decided and concrete, and our youth leaves us in a pent up sigh.

What is left then? The crumbling avenues of middle-age which pushes you into the highway of candy-wrappers and used, empty bullet shells.
In your old age you put on the memories over your head, a used sweater losing it’s warmth in the frayed strings of constant use. Empty, all the masks you wore in your life, glaring at you through empty sockets, till you sigh and close your doors, hobbling away to the cobwebbed alleyways of senile apathy.

My youth, the life stretches in my limbs, a man slumbering inside my wrists, smelling through my nose, hanging in an embryo sac, waiting patiently to be let lose on the world.
I can feel the pulse in my wrist, the same time -bomb tapping away in all our necks. Yet we wear out Sisyphean circles on the floor, living the fabled circle of life.


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