And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. – Wm. Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7
Can you imagine? We age to a rare vintage quickly and
too quietly; but I refuse, and fight against being one
who slips into the poorly tailored costume of a man
left doddering in senility. When Death calls I’ll swagger in.
But too many of my generation have embraced age as his
to revel in. They see gray hair and paunch as trophies of time.
They rush to retirement, ignore the damage indolence plays
upon their looks, their thoughts, their memory. Too many
laugh off the destructive nature time reeks on their parts.
Not so for me. I’ll claim that I am Life’s and give Death his
only when I can no longer conjure and do my senseless acts.
I will revile the withering, weathering, decaying of my being
and shake my fist at Death’s riders, be they four or seven.
I’ll live as a hurricane rages while the ordinary man ages.