I find it extremely fascinating to look at old people on the subway. White people especially, as they generally age differently from brown people. They are more wrinkled, and they wrinkle earlier. Some people have so many layers of wrinkles… like you could probably cover a whole person with that excess skin. No offence seriously… just morbid fascination. Brown people on the other hand grow fatter. I’ve seen very few thin nanis out there to be honest.

How do they feel when they look at themselves in the mirror? I’m not taking celebrities as examples because Botox, but people who were beautiful/handsome as young… how do they feel looking in the mirror seeing a wrinkly face and/or obese body looking back at them? Do they feel that it’s unfair?

That they’ve not always been this old, bothersome, person the youngsters perceive them as? Do they wish their inner child had a louder voice? That it wants to break free and show the world… but then trying to do just that is subdued by all the weaknesses of old age?

Maybe, as young, they were ten times prettier than the young people patronizing them. Maybe their bodies were more toned than the guy at the gym, but through manual labor and not through artificial instruments and compounds. Maybe that old wrinkled face you see on the subway, thinking “how cute this old lady uses makeup”, never had to touch the stuff as young because she was naturally beautiful (something many of us think is a myth these days).

Maybe, just maybe, they’ve achieved much more than you ever will in your lifetime. Maybe they worked harder.

So can you really blame them – after having lived for so many years, then having old age and sickness thrown upon them one after the other – for not being at the top of their game and maybe also a bit grumpy? If you as a young person, only after a day at work, come home exhausted not wanting to have to deal with screaming kids and bills that have to be paid, then why would you blame that old man for asking you to take it down a notch? He’s been doing what you’ve just started to do, for fifty years.

And your face. That beautiful face you adorn and take selfies of everyday. It. Won’t. Last.

Eram quod es, eris quod sum.

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